Suppression
by coldie voldie
Summary: Mostly based off of Chapters 34 and 35 of the book. John comes to call on Mr. Hale right after Mrs. Hale's death, and the Police Inspector comes to question Margaret while he's there. She's so overwhelmed by everything going on that she passes out. In the book, no one finds her, but this is something I always wished had happened here. Slightly AU. More summary inside!
1. Chapter 1

So this is just something I thought should have been in the book. There's a point in the book (for those of you who have not had the pleasure of reading it yet) right after the incident at Outwood Station, where Mr. Thornton comes to call on Mr. Hale, and while he is there the Police inspector comes and calls on Margaret. Immediately after he leaves she becomes so overwhelmed with everything that's going on, that she passes out cold on the floor. She wakes up, and goes into the study to compose her self, and Mr. Thornton leaves seconds afterwards. Anyways I always wondered what would've happened if Mr. Thornton had found her on the floor, so I've decided to write it out!

Obviously it's book-based, and I don't own any rights to this story. So enjoy, and please please please tell me what you think!

Chapter One

John Thornton made his way through the crowded streets towards Crampton, somewhat anxious about his upcoming visit. He had not seen Margaret since Mrs. Hale's funeral, and even then he had kept his head bent low the entire service, believing that if he looked upwards he would just stare at the back of her head the entire time. He didn't dare raise his head as everyone began to file out; he wasn't quite sure he would be able to witness her grief without being able to offer her some sort of comfort, which he knew would only repulse her. An unbidden thought that he had been repressing for days tore through him the moment he thought of offering her comfort: the handsome unknown stranger at Outwood Station. The memory of this man was so vivid in John's mind; it pained him to catch sight of his own reflection, knowing that he was nothing like the handsome gentleman Margaret had given her affection to. He shook himself out of his own thoughts as he knocked on the Hale's door. Dixon opened the door, and showed him into the drawing room.

Even though Margaret was sitting directly opposite the drawing room door, thus within his first direct line of sight, he refused to look at her. He had to keep things exactly how they were; he would not be unkind to her father, as she herself requested on the day of his first proposal. He did not think he could keep his emotions in check if he were to stare into her bewitching blue eyes. He strode purposefully towards Mr. Hale and clasped his hands. He didn't trust himself to speak, but he tried to pour all his condolences into his expression, and hoped Mr. Hale would understand. Mr. Hale closed his eyes momentarily, accepting the sympathy of his friend, and glanced surreptitiously in his daughters direction. John knew there was nothing he could do to avoid her without being rude, and most likely hurting his close friends' feelings. Preparing himself for the absolute worst, he turned to face her.

She stood by a chair in the corner of the room, looking at the floor, but glancing up at his face anxiously every few seconds. She took a few tiny steps away from him, and it made his heart clench. Had he really been so horrid towards her that she felt uncomfortable by his approach?

Yes, yes he had.

"Miss. Hale, I offer you my condolences; I was very sorry to hear the news. I know she loved you greatly." he tried to pour every emotion in to the small speech, knowing it would most likely be the last time they spoke civilly to each other. He took a chance and raised his eyes from the chair he was staring at, to her face. He almost sighed aloud with despair at being unable to comfort her himself. Dixon had told him that she was bearing up 'better than likely', but he did not thing that statement was completely accurate. Her entire demeanor was somewhat dimmed, her eyes were re-rimmed tired with many hours of patient caring for her father. Still she did not meet his gaze. As he spoke, he saw her carefully school her expression to remain emotionless, but she could not stop the tears the filled her eyes. She turned her head away from him, and as she did so, he saw a tear running down the side of her face. He could not stay by her any longer. He turned to go back towards her father, and she sat back down in the chair and resumed her work.

His heart was pounding in his chest as he sat next to Mr. Hale, did everything he could to ignore Margaret's presence. He did everything to keep his concentration on what his friend was speaking of, but he was so distracted by Margaret, and his own racing heart that he could do little but focus on breathing and keeping his expression calm. In that moment he completely forgot about Outwood Lane, and wished that he could simply go to Margaret and speak with her as he was speaking with her father. But it was not to be, for Dixon came to the door and said,

"Miss Hale, you are needed." out of the corner of his eye he saw Margaret rise gracefully and leave the room.

Several minutes passed, then an hour, and John wondered why Margaret did not return. At more than one point, he had made a motion to leave, but Mr. Hale pleaded with him to stay longer. He was slightly ashamed to say that he was also waiting for a change of seeing Margaret once more, and perhaps even speaking with her.

Still she did not return, and when it seemed they had exhausted every topic, John rose to leave, and this time Mr. Hale did not stop him. He rose with him, but John quickly said, "No, Mr. Hale, I can see myself out; please don't trouble yourself." Mr. Hale smile warmly at him, and said,

"Until next time then." He nodded, and bid him good bye.

John took his time walking across the landing towards the staircase, again hoping he might see Margaret once more. He went down the first set of stairs listening carefully for any sound of Margaret, but heard nothing but Dixon bustling about in the kitchen. He was just passing the doorway to Mr. Hale's study when something caught his eye.

He was frozen in place for what could have been eternity, staring at Margaret's body on the floor of Mr. Hale's study. Suddenly he rushed forwards, heart practically leaping out of his chest and knelt by her side.

"Margaret," he said clearly, ignoring propriety and patting her lightly on the side of her face in an attempt to wake her. She did not stir. He stood up quickly and rushed to the kitchen.

"Dixon!," he called loudly before he even reached the room. "Dixon! Come quickly, Miss Hale is unconscious in her father's study." Dixon dropped the jar she was holding, which shattered on the floor, and followed him to the study. She took one look at Margaret and said,

"I must go for the Master!" and she bounded up the stairs.

"I will take her to her bed." he called after her before carefully scooping Margaret off the floor and heading back up the stairs. It was hauntingly familiar to the day of the riot, when he carried into his own home, and placed her on the sofa. He met Mr. Hale and Dixon on the landing of the second floor.

"Oh, my Margaret!" Mr. Hale cried stricken with grief. "Here, John take her to her room. I will go for the doctor, and Dixon can help care for her till I return." John nodded, and then Mr. Hale was gone, and Dixon was leading him through the door to Margaret's room. John set her gently down on the bed absently brushed away the hair in her face that had come loose from the comb. Dixon's eyebrows shot up her forehead, but she made no comment for he immediately seemed to understand what he had done, and she noticed a faint blush creeping up his face.

Fortunately, John didn't have to worry about his public display of affection for very long because Dixon immediately left to fetch some water and a cloth, and John could hear the footsteps of the Dr. Donaldson and Mr. Hale. Sure enough, they came bustling in to the room a few minutes later, and John quietly excused himself. He set about pacing in the foyer, his mind reeling with thoughts and emotions when he heard a knock at the door. Not wanting to disturb Dixon or Mr. Hale, he decided to answer it himself. He was quite shocked to find himself looking at George Watson- the Police Inspector he had recommended a few weeks beforehand.

"Mr. Thornton!" He exclaimed in surprise. "I was not expecting to see you here!"

"I might say the same to you," he replied politely, curious as to why he would be at Mr. Hale's doorstep. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, come to think of it, I would like to talk to you about that, if you have a moment."

Mr. Thornton nodded, and walked to the same room that Watson had been speaking to Margaret in only a few hours earlier.

"So," he said in his most business-like and professional manner. "What can I do for you?"

A/N: So no this isn't a one shot, and I will update as soon as I can =) tell me what you think about it; it's my first North and South fic =D


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hello! So you, guys are awesome, no doubt about it! Within the first hour of me posting this up here, I literally got like four reviews in a row, haha. Now I'm sitting here with a stupid grin on my face, completely inspired by the enthusiasm you showed. So thanks for being amazing, it's made my whole evening!

Chapter Two

"Miss Hale….denied she was there?" his voice didn't sound quite his own anymore. This could not be true; she was not a deceitful person. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she had been there at the station that night. He had seen her with his own eyes, seen her passionate, loving embrace with the handsome young gentleman, seen her look of surprise when their eyes had met….

"Twice," Watson replied. "As distinct as she could be about it. I told her I would have to call again later this evening; I wanted to go back and speak with the witness once more, and tell him of her denial, and now I'm here to speak with her once more. Forgive me, but are you a friend of the Hale's?" John was still partially lost in his own thoughts.

"Yes, I am a friend of the Hale's." he said, quite distracted. His every thought was consumed by Margaret, and this one small lie.

What could posses her to do something like this? Lie to a Police Inspector, who was investigating a _murder_? This man, whomever he was, must have been very important in her life for her to take a risk so great. If she denied she was there, taken in to a court where a witness identified her in front of a judge, she would be condemned. How could this man allow _her_ to suffer so greatly for him? He could never ask anything so great of her. Then again, knowing Margaret, this man probably knew nothing about it. Then again, she had risked her very own life to protect him. Perhaps she would have done something like this for any man. No, that could not be true; Margaret would not just go strolling out with any man, especially so late at night, and she certainly wouldn't lie. There were so many thoughts and emotions happening inside him, that John felt his own body was not enough to contain it, or even understand it.

"I would not like to doubt the word of a respectable young lady without absolute proof to the contrary." Watson continued. "Perhaps, with you being a friend of the family's, you could tell me how to proceed." John seemed to come out of a reverie.

"Yes, you're quite. Don't do anything further until you have seen me again." John replied in his usual business-like tone.

"Sir, I told Miss Hale I would call on her this evening." Watson said looking around, as though he would find her in the room waiting for her.

"Miss Hale is quite unwell this evening, I'm sure she will not notice your absence." Watson looked apprehensive. "Listen, come to my warehouse in an hour, we will discuss everything then."

"Yes sir, one hour." Watson stood to leave, and John stood with him, clasping his hand before they departed. He himself could not leave without first going to see Mr. Hale. John made his way up the stairs and towards Margaret's room, his heart beating faster with each step he took. God, he hoped she would not be awake; how could he face her after this?

"John!" Mr. Hale exclaimed in a low voice. He glanced quickly at the bed where Margaret was, and breathed a sigh of relief before instantly becoming disgusted with himself that he should be wishing her ill, so that he wouldn't aggravate the ache in his chest. "John, I have to thank you."

"No, Mr. Hale please, it-"

"Absolutely not John, I will have my way in this." Mr. Hale replied firmly. "If you had not noticed Margaret, who knows if either of us would have even found her. To think she might have woke alone on the floor!" Mr. Hale shuddered. "I never would have known if it wasn't for you John, and I am eternally in your debt."

"Is she well?" John asked, trying his very best to suppress every emotion he was feeling. He couldn't push everything away however, and Mr. Hale noticed the worry and concern written plainly on his face as he glanced quickly at Margaret's unconscious form.

"Yes," Mr. Hale said slowly, looking back into the room where Dr. Donaldson was giving Dixon precise instructions about things that John didn't have the clarity of mind to perceive. "He says that she has exhausted herself, most likely with the anxiety of everything that's been going on, and looking after me so diligently. I must say, I have neglected her most cruelly these past weeks, and she has devoted every moment to the task of caring for me." Mr. Hale looked away from Margaret's room at the opposite wall.

"Don't trouble yourself too much Mr. Hale," John said kindly. "Your daughter loves you very much, and there was probably little you could have done to persuade her to do otherwise." Mr. Hale smiled sadly at him.

"Perhaps you are right; but from now on, I will be the most attentive father there ever was!" He chuckled slightly at his own joke, and John couldn't help but smile a little at him.

"I must return to the mill, but I am glad to hear Miss Hale will be well." he said.

"Will you join me for dinner tonight?" Mr. Hale asked. "It is the very least that I can do in return."

"Mr. Hale I promise you that you're in no debt to me." John said smiling again.

"John, really, I insist." John frowned for a moment, thinking about the consequences of Miss Hale appearing at dinner, before remembering that the doctor had ordered strict bed rest for a least a week.

"Of course, I'll join you at around six." he replied.

"Excellent!" Mr. Hale exclaimed, beaming at him before bidding him farewell.

Margaret woke quite suddenly, and was momentarily disoriented. She was in her room, in her nightdress, and tucked firmly into her bed covers. _Why was she here?_ She should be in the study, waiting for the Police Inspector to call again.

The Police Inspector! She sat bolt upright in bed.

"Now, now Miss Margaret, Dr. Donaldson says you are to remain in bed." Dixon said firmly. Margaret hadn't noticed she was in the room.

"Dixon, I cannot!" she exclaimed, startling the maid so severely, she actually jumped a little.

"Miss Margaret!"

"No, Dixon, the Police Inspector, oh he said he would call again tonight, and I must be there to meet him! Father can know nothing of this!"

"Do they know something about Master Frederick?" Dixon asked worriedly.

"No, someone saw Fred at the station and recognized him; they argued for a moment, and the man fell down the stairs and has been dead these two days! And someone….someone saw me there, and told the Police. They think I'm involved."

"Oh, Miss Margaret!" Dixon cried.

"He told me he would return this evening. I must get dressed!"

"No Miss, if you please, the inspector has already been here again." Margaret paled. "Now please don't get too excited, or your father will be so upset! He came earlier and handed me a letter to give to you. He already knew you were unwell, and did not ask to come in." She pulled the letter from her apron and handed it to Margaret. "You father knows nothing of it." she added, but Margaret paid her no heed. She hastily opened then envelope and devoured it's contents:

_Miss Hale,_

_I was sorry to hear that you are too ill to receive visitors, and wish you a speedy recovery. There will however be no inquest into the Leonard's case, and I've explained the situation to the witness, who apologized for mistaking your word. Enclosed is a note from the magistrate of the case, explaining any further details. _

_Sincerely,_

_G. Watson_

Margaret scrambled to find the second note that had fallen from the envelope in her haste to read the first. She opened it and read aloud so Dixon could hear:

'_There will be no inquest; medical evidence not sufficient enough to justify it. Take no further steps. I have not seen the coroner yet, but I will take full responsibility.'_

_John Thornton_

"Mr. Thornton!" Margaret gasped in shock. She looked up at Dixon, who looked just as surprised as she felt. "Dixon how did this happen? Did he meet Mr. Thornton here after I fainted?"

"No Miss," Dixon said. "Not to my knowledge. See it was Mr. Thornton that found you. On his way out you see; he saw you laying on the floor, pale as could be, and came and found me. Your father went for the doctor, and Mr. Thornton carried you in here so you could rest properly."

"Mr. Thornton-" Margaret couldn't finish. She didn't know how to respond to the situation.

"Yes Miss. He carried you in here and left for a bit, but I don't think he left house; he came back and spoke to your father only about thirty minutes later before leaving, and no he's downstairs with your father aga-"

"Mr. Thornton is here!" Margaret hissed. "Dixon, I cannot face him now. Not after everything he has done."

"What do you mean, Miss?" "Dixon, I had to lie to the Police Inspector, and Mr. Thornton….Mr. Thornton knows it. He saw me at the station with Frederick." she looked down sadly. "Don't let him up come up here Dixon, I could not bear to face him at this moment. Say anything you have to." Dixon nodded solemnly, before leaving the room. As soon as she was gone Margaret leapt out of bed and began pacing about her room, wringing her hands as she walked and looking anguished.

"Oh what must he think of me!" she exclaimed to herself. If she were truthful, she knew what he must think of her; it was what everyone would have thought of her. She felt her face grow warm at the thought of such indiscretion, and her chest clenched in a sudden burst of anger towards Mr. Thornton. How could he possibly believe such things about her? She had never given him any reason to doubt her character!

But in truth, she didn't know if he actually believed anything of the sort. She felt guilty at having thought so badly of him after everything he had done for her so far. He had offered her his hand, his heart, and she proudly rejected him without consideration of his own feelings. In spite of all this he had shown remarkable kindness to her parents, and even though he generally went out of his way to look past her, he had offered his sympathy and condolences only hours ago. Not to mention carrying her unconscious form up to her bedroom; something her father most likely would have been unable to do. Still on top of everything he had already done, he put his career and reputation at jeopardy by using his position as a magistrate to clear her name. How could she have been so quick to condemn him just moments ago? Margaret's face reddened with guilt, as she remembered his words to her:

"_You may speak on, Miss Hale. I am fully aware of all these misplaced sympathies of yours. I now believe that it was only your innate sense of oppression that made you act so nobly as you did. I know you despise me, but allow me to say it is because you do not understand me."_

"_I do not care to understand," she snapped back at him, taking hold of a table to support her. The conversation was so mentally and emotionally taxing that she didn't even realize the severity of what she was saying to him. _

"_No," he replied, looking away from her. "I see that you do not. It is unfair, and unjust of you." Margaret said nothing; she would not respond to such a statement. After what felt like an eternity to her, he took up his hat. _

"_One more thing, Miss Hale, and I will leave." Still she did not look at him. He sighed before continuing. "You act as though it has tainted you to be loved by me. You cannot avoid it. No, even if I would, I cannot cleanse you from it. Even if I could do it, I would not." he paused again, and Margaret glanced up at him. He was fidgeting with the rim of his hat, and appeared to be weighing his words. "I have never loved a woman before; I've always been too busy, and my thoughts have always been absorbed with other things. Now…Now I love, and will continue to love. Don't worry yourself though; there will not be much expression on my part."_

He would continue to love….her? No, he couldn't possibly. Especially not after the horrible way that she spoke to him. She had been so cruel. Perhaps she deserved this guilt. Perhaps, a small part of her mind couldn't help but plant the seed, his actions towards her had been an indication of his continuing love. She resolved that she would be as remarkably kind to Mr. Thornton, as he had been to her.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So I made a despicable amount of typo's in the last chapter, which I did go back and correct, but I'll make sure I double check this time ;) Again, all your reviews and enthusiasm were so incredible, and thank you so much for your thoughts! =) Also, the proposal scene last chapter was taken directly from the book, with only a few alterations. It's like 98% Gaskell, and 2% me, haha. Either way I thought I would throw it out there for all you BBC version lovers ;) I mean, don't get me wrong I love Richard Armitage as much as the next North and South fanatic, but I read the book and it was so good, it blew my mind, haha. Anyways, on to the chapter!

Chapter 3

Months had passed since Margaret's incident, and Mr. Thornton had not been back to visit her father since then. She didn't quite understand his behavior, but to be fair, she had never understood his behavior. He was acting exactly the same towards her as he almost always had, but he usually came to see her father on a regular basis. Now he sent notes and books back and forth with Mr. Hale, under the pretense of being too consumed with business at the mill. A nagging voice in the back of her mind told her that she was the reason he no longer called after her father. That he _did_ look on the incident at Outwood as she suspected he did. The thought of him thinking so badly of her struck a pain through her core that she didn't understand. She was so anxious about all the unspoken things between them that she could hardly do more than pace around the house, and try to calm her heart as it leapt out of her chest at every ring of the doorbell.

She needed to see him again, to put all these horrible misgivings behind them. To show him that she had indeed changed, and to make good on her resolution to be kind to him. She never even had the chance to thank him for the impromptu rescue in her father's study, as well as the Outwood incident.

As more weeks went by with no visit from Mr. Thornton, Margaret's anxiety reached an all time high. Although her father seemed to have a fresh resolve to pay more attention to her than ever, he could not offer her the company she longed: Bessie. She longed to be able to just leave, and spend the afternoon talking away all of her concerns with her dear friend. She could write to Edith, but she knew her cousin would only take it as an opportunity to condemn her father for his poor decision in moving their family so far away, and ask her to come visit her in London. It wasn't as though she didn't want to see her cousin, she didn't feel as though she could leave until she had word of Frederick's safety. She could ask Henry, but there was the possibility that he only knew as much as she herself did, and Margaret knew that this would only make her feel even more anxious. No, she would say nothing to Edith, and she would bear this burden on her own.

"Margaret, are you well?" she heard her father ask from the doorway to the drawing-room.

"Yes father, I am well." Margaret replied looking out the window to the street below. She sighed. "I was just lost in thought." Her father stepped into the room a little.

"Is it about the Boucher's?" The Boucher's; she had completely forgotten about the Boucher's. About a week earlier, the police had discovered the body of John Boucher, and only a few afterwards, his wife joined him in the afterlife. Their six newly orphaned children were now in the care of Nicholas Higgins.

Margaret contemplated her answer, but before she had a chance to speak the doorbell rang and her heart exploded in her chest. _Surely not right now!_ As much as she had been hoping for a chance to speak to Mr. Thornton, she suddenly felt unprepared. She heard Dixon's footsteps on the stairs, and tried to control her breathing.

"This came to the door for you, Master." Dixon said, and handed a book to her father and stood a little off to the side. Margaret attempted to calm herself and suppress the stinging waves of disappointment and frustration that made her want to hide in her room and cry.

"Ah, it's from Mr. Thornton!" her father said cheerfully. Margaret was able to school her expression into cool indifference, but inside her emotions were raging again. "He sends his regards, and asks how we are doing!" her father smiled fondly at the note, and turned to Dixon. "Tell him I am well, but that Miss Hale is-"

"Oh please, papa, make no mention of me." Margaret interrupted quietly. "He did not ask." her father scrutinized her intensely over his half-moon spectacles. She knew that her face gave nothing away, but she could not be sure of the tone she had just spoken in, and she was suddenly so anxious at the thought of Mr. Thornton's impression of her that she was shivering slightly. "My dear!" Mr. Hale exclaimed. "You have turned very pale indeed! Go and lay down for a while and rest." Margaret didn't complain at the convenience of this escape from the society of her father, and immediately brushed past him to her room. Perhaps if she wouldn't have been so consumed in her own thoughts, she might have heard her father say,

"Just a moment, Dixon. I will write a reply to Mr. Thornton, and you can send it with his servant before he goes."

* * *

John sat at the desk in his office with one hand over his face, and the other resting on the table with a quill sitting loosely between his fingers. It had been a long day sitting in his office, writing out ledgers and making budget plans. It might not have taken as long as it did if every other thought did not constantly turn to Margaret. He had been so busy at the mill these past few months that he was unable to call at Crampton. The strike had done far more damage than he had ever anticipated, and they weren't picking back up as quickly as he would like. Although business was quite tricky for him at the moment, he could not say it was his only motive for avoiding Crampton.

His feelings for Margaret were so conflicting, that he could barely understand them. He was so passionately in love with her that he thought her, even with all her faults, more lovely and more outstanding than any other woman he had ever met. Still, he knew her to be so attached to another man, so led away by her affection for him that she would violate her truthful nature. It was that moment-that very falsehood that stained her and proved to him how blindly she loved this other man-this dark, slight, elegant, handsome man while he himself was rough, stern, and strongly made. No, he could not compare, and he knew that this other man had the look of a man whom Margaret deserved. It was this way of thinking, these very thoughts that propelled John into an agony of fierce jealousy.

He remembered that look; he would have gladly laid down his life at her feet for a look of such tender devotion from her. He laughed at himself for ever having thought that her actions on the day of the riot were an expression of partiality towards him, not when he could compare how soft and bewitching she looked with a man she really loved. He remembered every single part of her rejection-word for word, movement by movement.

John was very aware of the fact that he had never been more irritable in his entire life than he was now. He felt inclined to give abrupt, sharp answers, and bark orders at anyone who questioned him. The knowledge hurt his pride nearly as much as the sting of Margaret's rejection. He had always prided himself on his ability to control his emotions; and he resolved to work harder than ever to control himself. He would, and could overcome this great obstacle, and consequently he became very quiet and stern-more so than he normally was. Even at home he was more than unusually silent at home, and had taken to waste his evenings away by pacing the sitting room repeatedly. On one particular evening earlier that week, his mother seemed to have had all she could take of it.

"_Can you stop-can you just sit down for one moment?" she asked harshly. Immediately John sat down in a chair against the wall. "I need to speak to you about something." He glanced at her before looking down at the floor again. She sighed and continued. "Betsy says she must leave us; she claims her lovers death has affected her so greatly that she cannot giver her heart to her work."_

"_Very well," John replied still looking at the floor. "I suppose there are other cooks we could meet with." His mother scoffed at him. _

"_That is so like a man she is not merely the cook, John. She understands the way the house is run, and it will be a very long time before another will meet the same standard. However I wished to speak to you about what she is saying about your friend Miss Hale." John suppressed the urge to laugh at her. _

"_Miss Hale is no friend of mine." he said bitterly. "Mr. Hale is my friend."_

"_That's good to hear." he mother replied loftily. "for if she was your friend, it might bother you to hear what is being said of her." _

"_Just tell me what it is." he snapped quietly. _

"_She says that her fiancée was killed by a man who was walking out with Miss Hale at the station that night. That this man pushed him down the stairs, and he consequently died; and Margaret! John, Margaret is involved! She was with this man, after dark, and is now involved with the police!" _

"_Why does this concern us, mother?" _

"_Oh John." His mother said sympathetically, as though trying to explain a difficult matter to a small child. Her tone irritated him beyond belief._

"_Mother I tell you right now, this man died as a direct result of his own drinking habit, not by violence." _

"_How could you possibly know that?" his mother exclaimed incredulously. _

"_Because I spoke to the surgeon myself."_

"_Was Margaret there?" She had finally come out and said the question that had been burning in her mind for days. _

_John did not answer her. _

"_What about the young man?"_

_Still John did not answer her. Several minutes passed before he spoke again. "Mother I am telling you, there was no inquest; no judicial inquiry."_

"_But Margaret was seen there, at that late hour walking backwards and forwards with a gentleman, and was seen by the draper's assistant!" she looked scandalized. At this, John could suppress his growing anger no longer, and he stood abruptly and walked toward the fireplace where his mother was sitting. _

"_It is not so very long ago that I myself was a draper's assistant." He said irritably. "Being noticed by a draper's assistant does nothing to alter my opinion of her character. She may do as she pleases, with whomever she wishes, and it is no concern of mine." He tried to make himself believe what he had just said. _

"_I am glad to hear it." his mother said. "However I have, and will keep my own opinion of her. You think he is her lover, don't you?" Hearing those last words spoken out loud by another, his own mother, made it seem a hundred times more probable. A wave of pain shot through him so powerfully and penetrating, that his body began to shake, and he struggled to suppress it. He turned sharply and faced his mother. _

"_Yes, I do believe he is her lover." he turned around just as quickly, writhing in his pain, and raised a shaking hand to grip his face, praying it would relieve some of the agony he endured. _

_It did not. Before she could say anything, he turned to face her once more._

"_Mother, I do believe he is her lover, whoever he is. But I believe she may be in need of some womanly council. Perhaps she is experiencing things which I do not understand, and perhaps you could advise her of. I know something is wrong. Some dread that must be a terrible torture to her."_

"_For God's sake, John!" she burst. "What on earth has happened? What do you know?" But again, he did not answer her. "If you do not say something, I cannot tell you what I think of her! You have no right to say what you have done against her."_

"_Not against her mother; I cannot speak against her!"_

"_Well then you have no right to say what you have done, unless you say more. These…half-expressions are what ruin a woman's character!"_

"_Her character!" anger flared within him towards his mother. "You do not dare…." he stopped short, and suppressed the urge to finish his speech. Then, he drew himself up with deliberate dignity and composure, and continued. "I will not say any more than this: I believe Miss Hale to be in some strait and difficulty connected with an attachment which of itself, from my knowledge of Miss Hale's character, is completely innocent and right. What my reason is, I refuse to say, but I will not hear another word spoken against her." He could tell he shocked her with his abrupt tone, but he didn't care. _

"_Very well, John. I will speak with her." John left the room without another word to her. _

John was brought back to reality by a knock on his door.

"Come in." he called. The servant he had sent to Crampton earlier returned with a note, which he gave John before leaving. It read:

_John,_

_I hope this note finds you well at the Mill, and that business is proving to be easier than it has been of late. Thank you for your concern for myself and my daughter. I find that I am doing quite well, but I fear Margaret is not faring as well these days. I fear she is spending too much time indoors and has become rather lonely since her mother's death. It is for this reason that I send a note instead of a customary reply. I hoped that perhaps you might join us for dinner this evening, and give Margaret some company better than myself. I believe it would do her immense good. _

_Sincerely,_

_Richard Hale_

His heart was pounding in his chest; Mr. Hale wanted him to come to dinner…to keep Margaret company.

* * *

A/N: hello again! I just wanted to take a chance to answer the reviews, haha.

The most common question I've had is if I'm going to let it play out with the original book ending. The answer is no, it's probably going to be a mostly different story from here on out. =) also, Neska-Polita, I believe the line you were remembering is "and all this while, Margaret lay as still and as white as death on the study floor!" It's the very line that inspired me to write this story, haha =D

**Additional update: Sweet Lord, I'm having an incredibly bad spelling streak. Please Please Please forgive my ignorance; I've gone through and fixed the typo's I've noticed, but if you see any more, just let me know.


	4. Chapter 4

**So a very merry hello to you all! Listen, I'm soooooo terribly sorry about how long it has taken me to write this chapter. Between life, and a new semester at school, it's been a handful for me to deal with. I'm taking this Medical Terminology course, and it's like, seriously kicking my ass. I don't know how many of you out there are studying for occupations in the Medical field, but it really blows. Anyways, enough about me, you don't' want to hear about my college education ;)**

**There was such an incredible response from my last chapter, and it really touched my heart to know that you enjoyed it that much, lol. There were many of you who commemorated me on how I used lots and lots of lines straight from the work of Gaskell herself, and I am super glad that so many of you have actually read the book! it's such an inspiring read, and for those who still haven't read it, that's why my writing seems so old fashioned at parts ;) Also, one soul kindly pointed out the fact that if Mr. Thornton had actually found Margaret unconscious, that he most likely wouldn't have carried her away, and hat even if he did it most certainly would not have been to her room...You are of course, quite right, and that thought never occurred to me for an instant. However, what's done is done, lol, so you must all forgive my stupidity on that part. Many of you also asked if the story would continue, and end how it was originally written. Probably not. I enjoy writing about John waaaaay too much to stop now. There will most likely be quite a few changes, but I do intend to keep using the original text all the way through.**

**LASTLY there will undoubtedly be an appalling number of typo's and errors in this chapter. I've got 7 pages already, but my computer is a little frazzled at the moment, so I am borrowing a computer from someone. Well I shouldn't really call it a computer; it's a stupid little net book with the smallest keyboard ever created, NO Microsoft Word (yes I'm typing this Chapter in the FF publish section, kill me know, its such a pain in the ass), and the 't' and 'n' barely even work. So keep this in mind while you're reading. Once I get my computer back I can repost the chapter as it should be written, lol.**

**Enjoy, this chapter is going to be a long one =)**

Chapter 3

Margaret resumed pacing in her bedroom and tried to calm herself. The thought of Mr. Thornton receiving news of her well-being, from her father no less, made her terribly uneasy. She realized that no matter what she had been telling herself, the certainty of his abhorrent opinion of her made her doubt everything. She knew beyond any inkling of doubt that Mr. Thornton had caught her in what was probably that only lie she had ever spoken. She selfishly wished he could just be some distant relation; someone she had no chance of seeing again. The abrupt reality of seeing him in person, seeing his expression of intense disappointment made her fear any meeting with him in the future, and she prayed that someway-somehow he could learn of Frederick without her having to be involved. Perhaps then he might not believe her to be so wholly untrustworthy. Her thoughts were interrupted by the ring of the doorbell below. Her heart resumed its usual thundering in her chest and she continued pacing. She heard Dixon coming up the stairs, and she became so intensely anxious that she had to hold on to the bed frame to keep herself standing. Dixon knocked once on the door before opening it.

"Miss Margaret, Mrs. Thornton is here to see you in the drawing room." Mrs. Thornton? She was immediately relieved and curiously saddened by the news, but her heart filled with warmth at the kindness of Mrs. Thornton taking time to call on her.

"Thank you, Dixon. I'll come down directly." Dixon left, and Margaret walked over to the wash basin and splashed the cool water on her face to refresh herself. Oh how her emotions were constantly betraying her! Try as she might, Margaret realized she would no be able to understand these conflicting feelings and it frustrated her beyond belief. She rubbed some more water on her face, and went downstairs to meet Mrs. Thornton.

"Mrs. Thornton, how good it is of you to call!" Margaret exclaimed upon entering the drawing room. Mrs. Thornton was slightly startled by soft kindness of Margaret's voice, and the serenity of her countenance. It was so purely genuine, that she found herself unable to recall the harsh words she had come to Crampton planning to say. They spoke for a for a little while of inconsequential things, and Margaret inquired after Fanny, and thanked Mrs. Thornton for the recommendation of Martha, their servant. Mrs. Thornton stood to leave, but paused as though she had something she was deliberating on making known.

"Miss Hale," she said slowly, turning to face Margaret again. "I have a duty to perform. I promised your poor mother that I would not allow you to act in any way wrongly, or inadvertently, without remonstrating. That is to say at least, without offering advice, whether you took it or not." Margaret's body betrayed her will by producing a furious blush, and making her look as bad as any culprit caught doing wrong. So this had been Mr. Thornton's doing; she felt angry at him for sending his mother to lecture her on the severity of her actions, but also intensely disappointment that he had not chosen to come confront her himself If he had, then she might be able to explain the situation well enough to him to restore his good opinion of her. Once more she suppressed her anger towards Mr. Thornton; his mother deserved none of it, and she claimed she was acting on her poor mother's wishes. Margaret was silent while waiting for Mrs. Thornton to continue.

"When one of my servant's told me that you were seen walking at Outwood Station with a gentleman, so late at night, and quite far from home, I could hardly believe it. It was…indiscreet to say the least; there have been many a young woman to lose their character before now-" Mrs. Thornton stopped upon glancing at Margaret's face, and she knew her composure was slipping. Her face grew hot, and her eye's flashed with fire. How could she, practically a stranger to Margaret, interfere with her conduct, and speak of her character in such ways? The impertinence of it made her stomach clench in anger. She would not deign Mrs. Thornton with a response. She must have noticed the battle in Margaret's eyes, for she continued in a rather antagonistic tone.

"For your poor mother's sake, I thought it right to warn you against such improprieties! They will degrade you in the long run, in the estimation of the world, even if they do not physically harm you."

"For my mother's sake?" Margaret said, her voice rising in pitch with her strained emotion. "I must bear a good deal, but I cannot bear everything; I'm quite sure that my mother never meant you to expose me to insult."

"Insult, Miss Hale!"

"Yes, madam, for it is an insult." Margaret replied coldly. "What do you think you know of me that should lead you to expect-" but Margaret could not continue, and was overcome with emotion for a moment. She hid her face behind her hands. "I understand perfectly now." she said bitterly, setting her hands in her lap, and turning her tear stained face towards Mrs. Thornton. "Whatever Mr. Thornton may have told you-"

"No Miss Hale." Mrs. Thornton interrupted sharply. "My son told me nothing. You know nothing of the man you rejected; you aren't worthy to know him. Would you care to know what kind of man you rejected?" she spoke to Margaret in a mocking, accusatory way. "My son, scorned by you, begged me just last night to come here; he told me he knew you to be dealing with 'some dread that must be a terrible torture to you' and said that you needed council that he himself would be unable to give. He refused to speak one word against you!" Margaret's face was buried in her hands again, and her body shook slightly with sobs. "Come Miss Hale, surely there is some explanation you can give me that would justify this; you do not seem like one to be to improper."

Margaret said nothing; even if she could regain control of her emotions long enough to reply to Mrs. Thornton, they had received no letter from Frederick of his safe departure from England.

"I will be sorry to have to break off acquaintance with you." Mrs. Thornton replied. "For Fanny's sake, as I told Mr. Thornton last night, if Fanny had done so, we would consider it a great disgrace, and should she be led astray-"

"I can give you no explanation;" Margaret replied in a low voice. "I have done wrong, but not in the way you imagine or imply. I feel Mr. Thornton must judge me less harshly than you, but I do believe you mean right."

"Thank you," Mrs. Thornton replied, drawing herself up. "I was rather unwilling to consent to it when your mother asked me. I did not approve of my son's attachment to you, even while I only suspected it. You didn't seem worthy to me. But when you exposed yourself as you did on the day of the riot, I felt it was no longer right to set myself against my son's wish of proposing to you. A wish, by the way, he had always denied entertaining until the day of the riot." Margaret winced, and drew in her breath with a long hissing sound, which Mrs. Thornton took no notice of. "I told him yesterday, short as the time in between was, that you must have finally had some word of this other lover-"

"Oh what you must think of me!" Margaret said bitterly, throwing her head back in proud disdain. "You can say nothing more Mrs. Thornton; I will not attempt to justify myself for any of your accusations, and you must allow me to leave the room." and without another word, she swept out of the room with the noiseless grace of an offended princess.

John was dressing for his visit with Mr. Hale somewhat anxiously when he heard the front door of the house slam with an impressive thump! Frowning slightly, he grabbed his cravat off the dresser, and began tying it on his way down the stairs. Halfway down he saw his mother storming past towards the sitting room. Still fumbling with his cravat due to his nerves, he hurried after her.

"Mother? Are you well?" he called after her, genuinely concerned. She sat forcefully in a chair by the window, and attacked her sewing with a vengeance.

"Where are you off to?" she asked with a determined calm that unnerved him.

"To Crampton; Mr. Hale asked if I could join them for dinner this evening." His mother remained silent for several moments, and John grew somewhat impatient. "Is something the matter?" Still not looking away from her work she replied:

"You might want to reconsider going to Crampton this evening."

"Now really, mother, I have already told you how I feel about Miss Hale's actions at Outwood Station. It will not prevent me from associating with her father." he spoke harshly, perhaps a little too harshly, for his mother instantly dropped her sewing and looked him full in the face.

"I have just come from Crampton, at your request I might add." she snapped. "She was, shall I say, less than pleased with what I had to say." John frowned. Then she added a little satisfactorily: "But no matter; she has done nothing to change my poor opinion of her."

"Mother I do not care to hear any of what you and Miss Hale spoke of." John said, and it was true; his mother's demeanor was enough to make him apprehensive of what she might have said to Miss Hale, at is own request. "Is there some particular reason you believe I should not call on Mr. Hale this evening?"

"Not particularly, no." his mother replied, resuming her work. "But I have serious doubts on the pleasure her company could give her; she was quite out of spirits." John scowled at her; she really did enjoy insulting Margaret every time she was presented with an opportunity.

"I must leave now, or I'll be late." he said a little irritably. He would be early if he left now, but he was a little annoyed with his mother, and wanted some time to think and clear his mind before seeing Margaret. She said nothing, and continued her work without looking at him.

He decided to take the long way there since he left so early. He was coming over the ridge of a hill when he spotted Mr. Hale a little ways ahead of him.

"Mr. Hale?" He said, surprised.

"John!" he replied pleasantly. "What coincidence! What brings you up here?" John smiled at his friend, and realized just how much he had missed his company.

"I was headed to your house actually," he replied. Mr. Hale chuckled.

"Well I am headed back there myself, we can walk together." They walked in silence for a few minutes before Mr. Hale spoke again. "I am glad you're joining us tonight, it has been a long while since we've had anyone over." John looked away feeling guilty. Even though Mr. Hale wasn't intentionally taking a jab at him, he still felt ashamed of his selfish actions.

"I'm sorry for being so negligent lately," John stated honestly.

"Not to worry, not to worry!" Mr. Hale replied jovially. "You're here now, and all is well, so think nothing of it." John smiled at the genuine kindness of his closest friend, but said nothing more, and they remained in companionable silence until they reached the main road.

"I honestly cannot thank you enough for coming on such short notice," Mr. Hale said, looking a little saddened. "I believe Margaret is having a difficult time recovering from her mother's death." John suddenly found his throat was dry and could make no comment at the moment. "She's spent so long looking after me that I feel there's little I could ever do to repay her for her kindness. I have always been a little too wrapped up in my own concerns, and my daughter has always been there taking care of me. It wasn't until you found her-" he paused for a moment, with a serious expression upon his face. John wished he could say something, anything to give some sort of reassurance to Mr. Hale but he couldn't find his voice. They remained in an awkward silence the remainder of the journey to Crampton.

Margaret shut herself in her room and began furiously pacing the length of it. She forced herself to replay the entire conversation over and over again in her head until she was satisfied that she had thoroughly examined every detail of Mrs. Thornton's speech. She felt humiliated that Mrs. Thornton could so easily believe such horrid things about her, and furious that she had so easily goaded her into losing her temper.

Well, she thought angrily. At any rate, her words cannot touch me; they will fall off me, because I am innocent of every slander she cast against my name. No, I will not be affected by her words. It was only after she had calmed down slightly that she realized the meaning of something Mrs. Thornton had said to her: "My son, scorned by you, begged me just last night to come here; he told me he knew you to be dealing with 'some dread that must be a terrible torture to you' and said that you needed council that he himself would be unable to give."

How could she ever face him again? There was no doubt now as to exactly what Mr. Thornton thought of her. That Frederick must be some lover she had run off to be with under the cover of darkness, in his eyes, she was no better than a common wench. The knowledge made her sick with shame and disappointment, and she paced more determinedly than ever. She heard the sound of the door opening downstairs, and knew her father must be home. She continued to pace and attempted to suppress every emotion she was feeling, if only for the sake of giving her father some bearable company during dinner. if it was up to her, she would skip the meal altogether try to understand why she was so overbearingly concerned what Mr. Thornton's opinion of her was. It seemed as though every time she heard of Mr. Thornton, it was about something he had done for her. He called off the investigation, told no one of her whereabouts that evening, refused to slander her character, and even still had the though that she herself might be dealing with too much, and sent her a confidant knowing that he could not be one himself. Oh she had misjudged him so terribly, and now it seemed she would never have the opportunity to redeem herself. She put her head in her hands and let out an extremely frustrated sigh. She heard her father calling softly for her from downstairs, and she walked with purpose out of her room, determined to take control of her situation as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

John tried in vain to suppress the ever increasing anxiety that had started burning in his stomach as he walked towards Crampton with Mr. Hale. It coiled inside him like a snake threatening to strike. As they turned onto the street that would lead them to Mr. Hale's home, John was suddenly unable to speak anymore, and the terrible burning anxiety had forced its way through his body to his heart which seemed to erupt with life at the intruding force. When they made it to the steps he could feel his hands shaking slightly and he quickly removed his hat from his head and began fiddling with the rim, thankful for the timely distraction. He watched Mr. Hale open the door and followed him inside, not daring to look around, terrified that he would see Margaret's beautiful eyes, and lose the last few ounces of self control he had left. by he time he had removed his coat and set his hat down, the coiling burning nerves inside him were so strong he couldn't even feel his face. He tried desperately to control himself, but he knew it was a pointless endeavor. There was a constant creaking noise coming from the ceiling above him that he had never heard before, and tried to focus on understanding what it might be, and hopefully calm himself down some. He glanced up at the ceiling, and then at Mr. Hale who was also looking upwards with a curious expression on his face.

"What on Earth?" he asked himself. Suddenly Dixon entered the room, and started slightly at the sight of her master and himself. She opened her mouth to say something but Mr. Hale cut her off, never taking his eyes off the ceiling. "What's going on up there, Dixon?" John saw Dixon cast an irritated glance at the ceiling before she answered him.

"It's Miss Margaret, sir." John's eyes snapped back up to the ceiling. "She's been in a right state nearly all afternoon; shut herself up there after M-" Dixon stopped suddenly, and glanced over at John before continuing. "Well, not much longer after you left, sir." John was willing to bet that it must have been the time his mother had been to see her. He suddenly felt a little guilty at having asked her to come to Margaret; his mother had obviously had some sort of effect on her, but whether it had been good or bad he would not know. He wasn't so sure he even wanted to.

"Ah," Mr. Hale said, frowning slightly as he had in the graveyard. "Thank you Dixon." John remained where he was, still looking at the ceiling, while Mr. Hale went to the foot of the staircase and called: "Margaret." It was quiet firm statement, not a yell, or question.

Instantly the noise from the ceiling stopped and John could hear her walking towards him through he ceiling, but she descended the staircase with noiseless grace.

The roaring nerves were back with a vengeance that could not be tamed. He watched her full form come into view, her eyes immediately going to her father and barely containing the myriad of emotions that he knew would torment him later. It appeared that she had not yet noticed he was even there. It wasn't long before she did however, and whatever reaction she had was lost on his mind the moment she looked into his eyes. As startlingly blue as ever, they looked so intently at him he felt as though she was piercing his soul. There was so much in her eyes, but had no idea how to identify what any of it actually was; she had never looked at him that way before. He glanced away from her, apprehensive of her expression, and not fully trusting himself to remain composed. Mr. Hale followed his daughters' line of sight and said quickly,

"Mr. Thornton has finally been able to take a moment away from his office, and spend here with us, Margaret. He's agreed to join us for dinner." he spoke quite cheerfully, and once more John was overwhelmed with guilt. It would seem as though he were doomed to feel little but regret and sorrow this evening, despite any efforts to the contrary.

"It is good of you to come Mr. Thornton." she said quietly, looking pointedly over at the coat rack to his left, with an unreadable expression on her face. He said nothing, trying to ignore the guilt burning in his gut.

The remainder of the evening went unexpectedly well for John, if one could assume that 'well' meant him feeling intensely uncomfortable being in Margaret's presence, whilst trying to be a good friend to Mr. Hale by keeping her company, a task which required him to actually _speak_ to her. It was something he was finding incredibly difficult, not because he could think of nothing to say, but because he could not get past the expression she wore on her face since their eyes had met in the foyer. That expression of hurt and betrayal, mingled with her own guilt was very nearly making him lose his mind. Her eyes, which she would not bring up from the floor to meet his after their initial introduction, held every answer that he desperately needed.

Of all the days he could have chosen to _finally_ come and see her father, it would have been this particular day; the day where she had resolved to be a better person to him for all of his kindness to her. The one day she would _not_ be able to bring herself to do it, because of the _one day _his mother decided to visit. She was still in turmoil over their conversation, and was so lost in thought over the progression of the day that she could hardly focus on anything that was going on around her. If it had been but a day before, she might have found her heart skipping at Mr. Thornton's many attempts to begin a conversation with her. Today however, she had been visited by his mother, and all she could feel was the hurt that Mrs. Thornton's words had inflicted, the betrayal that she was talked about so negatively in the Thornton household, and the guilt for even feeling that way. She tried desperately the entire evening to suppress that feeling, to be grateful to Mr. Thornton for everything that he had done for her, even after she had rejected his proposal to vehemently, but she could not help but feel that way. She wanted nothing more than to earn back her good opinion with him, and it was incredibly hurtful to know that he had so very little faith in her character, that he asked his own mother to counsel her on what was 'proper'. She felt the stinging of bitter tears coming to her eyes and stood up rather suddenly.

"Forgive me father, Mr. Thornton;" she said quietly. "I am rather tired, and I think I shall retire. Goodnight." she swept from the room before either of the gentlemen could utter a response, and rushed up to her room where she fell onto her bed and cried herself to sleep.

**A/N: Again, terribly sorry for any typos, spelling, grammatical, or any other such errors. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter; nothing super interesting in it you know, just one of those filler chapters, but it leads you somewhere great. I'm sorry it took so long...it's hard for me to write filler chapters... anyways, I love all you reviewers out there, and tell me whatcha think! **


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: So….longest chapter ever! It is well worth the wait. I really felt like we needed just a little more insight into poor John's misery. Of course, everything that I've written is based entirely off the book. Although I will admit, there are quite a few songs which inspired this chapter, if you even care to know, lol.

The Scientist-Coldplay

A Rush of Blood to the Head-Coldplay

Playing With Fire (acoustic version)-Emery

The Secret-Emery

The Funeral-Band Of Horses

Drink In My Hand-The Classic Crime

These are really superb songs (and bands). You should listen to them. They're amazing. And inspiring. Anyways, to those who have reviewed and faithfully stayed by my side from the beginning, thank you thank you thank you thank you, a million times thank you! =D

I love you all and please enjoy this whopping 4,823 word-long chapter!

Also, I'm beginning with the last paragraph or so of chapter 4 because it's been so long since I've updated.

* * *

_Of all the days he could have chosen to finally come and see her father, it would have been this particular day; the day where she had resolved to be a better person to him for all of his kindness to her. The one day she would not be able to bring herself to do it, because of the one day his mother decided to visit. She was still in turmoil over their conversation, and was so lost in thought over the progression of the day that she could hardly focus on anything that was going on around her. If it had been but a day before, she might have found her heart skipping at Mr. Thornton's many attempts to begin a conversation with her. Today however, she had been visited by his mother, and all she could feel was the hurt that Mrs. Thornton's words had inflicted, the betrayal that she was talked about so negatively in the Thornton household, and the guilt for even feeling that way. She tried desperately the entire evening to suppress that feeling, to be grateful to Mr. Thornton for everything that he had done for her, even after she had rejected his proposal to vehemently, but she could not help but feel that way. She wanted nothing more than to earn back her good opinion with him, and it was incredibly hurtful to know that he had so very little faith in her character, that he asked his own mother to counsel her on what was 'proper'. She felt the stinging of bitter tears coming to her eyes and stood up rather suddenly._

_"Forgive me father, Mr. Thornton;" she said quietly. "I am rather tired, and I think I shall retire. Goodnight." she swept from the room before either of the gentlemen could utter a response, and rushed up to her room where she fell onto her bed and cried herself to sleep._

Chapter Five

That night Margaret cried herself to sleep. She had never in her entire life felt so helplessly out of control of herself, and it frightened her. She wished, not for the first time, that her mother was still alive.

The following morning Margaret awoke to a throbbing head, and swollen eyes. She lay awake looking at the ceiling for quite some time, and allowed her mind to wander. It went from subject to subject, tactfully avoiding any mention of the Thornton's for a small while, but when it landed there, Margaret found the only member of the family she could think of was Mr. Thornton. Mr. Thornton with his brooding manner, piercing gaze, unyielding honor, steadfast morality…Mr. Thornton who once proclaimed passionate undying love to her, and have it thrown back in his face as though it was a worthless rag. Mr. Thornton gave his mother every attention he could spare away from the Mill before her death, who remained her father's constant companion, who honored her only request of him without complaint.

Begrudgingly she peeled herself out of bed, and shuffled over to the wash basin. She lowered her hands into the bowl, and slowly brought the little puddle of water to her face trying to rub away her feeling of despair, with little success. It would have to do, however; Her godfather Adam Bell would be arriving soon to visit her father, and she knew there was much work that needed to be done before he arrived.

* * *

John scowled at his ledger book; he was having a horrible morning. His mother seemed to be going out of her way to bring the Hale's up in almost every conversation so that she could continue to demean them, his financial affairs were growing steadily worse every day, three machines had broken, an exorbitant amount of cotton had been wasted, _and_ he had received an invitation to dine with the Hale family that very evening. It had been nearly a week since his last disastrous attempt at civility with Margaret, and he assumed his invitation was only due to the fact that Adam Bell (who was ironically his landlord) had come to pay his respects to Mr. Hale and ended up staying several more days. Of course, he would accept the invitation; he would not allow his feelings for Margaret to come between the friendship he had with her father. Unfortunately, being in Mr. Hale's company always ended up being some cruel form of bittersweet torture. He loved Margaret-oh yes, he loved her-and being near to her always gave him a kind of peace in his soul he couldn't explain….until his overly cynical mind reminded him that she was as passionately in love with another as John was with her.

Fate had a sick, twisted sense of humor.

He was miserable, and irritable-oh God was he irritable. No one ever addressed him directly if they could avoid it, for fear of his reaction; good news or bad news, it was certain his response would be…less than courteous. His life seemed to be falling into a rut of misery and longing where he could hear nothing but his own pitiful failing attempts at success in life repeated back to him, and all he could feel were Margaret's arms around his neck, taunting him with her indifference. It seemed as though all his efforts were in vain. The days that he saw her….seeing Margaret was both the most glorious, and the most unbearable experience he had ever endured. He couldn't shake the images from his mind, nor the feelings in his chest when he was near her. He couldn't control his emotions and he hated it. Grumbling, John shook his head to clear his thoughts. He needed to focus on work, on increasing his production, on not losing his business, but he could only think about Margaret, and how long it had been since he'd seen her smiling at him. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine that smile gracing her beautiful face, her eyes sparkling with life, her arms around his neck as they had been on that fateful day….

He was ripped back to reality by frantic knocking at his door.

"Oh, for love of-" he grumbled as he got up from his desk. He crossed the room in to large strides and threw the office door open. A frightened young girl stood on the threshold looking determinedly at the ground.

"Mr. Williams sent me to come get you, master-one of the new machines is jammed and he says he cannot get it by himself." John said nothing, but moved past her, and searched for Williams. The small group of workers gathered together next to a loom was quite easy to spot, and he strode towards them quickly.

"What the devil happened here!" He snapped. The group of workers jumped in fright, and one man spun around so quickly he actually stumbled a little. No one made a sound, and quickly stepped aside for John to get through, keeping their heads down and hardly daring to breathe. He could see Williams' legs peeking out from underneath the loom, but could not see his head. Sighing, he removed his jacket and began rolling up his sleeves. It took nearly an hour and a half to clear the blasted obstruction and get the loom running again, and put John in a disposition that continued to grow more sour with each passing minute. Unfortunately his day would only get worse.

Not thirty minutes had passed after the jammed loom incident before he was summoned to the store room. A few of the shingles on the roof had come loose, and a steady stream of water was pouring into the room and splashing water on the cotton that was stored inside. After scrambling with the men to move the cotton to a dry location, fixing the roof, drying the floor, and moving all the cotton back into the store room nearly three hours had passed. He stalked back towards his office, and didn't even make it to the door before a frightened young girl came running up the stairs after him.

"Master! Come quickly sir, some of the men are fighting!"

John said nothing and pushed past the girl, hurrying towards the sounds of raised voices. Sure enough, there was a group of men all involved in the scuffle, Williams desperately trying to separate them, but having no such luck. John threw himself right in the middle without really thinking about it.

One man punched another man so hard, he flew right into John, who was then pushed right in between two other men. Before he understood what was happening, he was on the ground with his head and chest flaming in pain. There was an abrupt absence of sound as John shook his head, trying to clear his vision and stumbled back up to his feet.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he yelled to no one in particular, wiping the blood off the side of his face with the back of his hand. Everyone was staring at him open-mouthed. "Stop acting like imbeciles, and get back to work, before your irresponsibility costs me my business, and you don't have a job to come back to!" He gave them one last withering glare before retreating to his office once.

Once inside, he ripped off his cravat and threw it on his desk before making his way over to the small mirror hanging on the wall. His right cheekbone was already bruising. He sighed and rubbed absently at his chest before jumping slightly in pain. Glancing up at the mirror once more, he noticed his shirt was stained with blood. Pulling the collar down as far as he could, he saw the gash that ran from his left shoulder, over his collarbone, and ending around his heart. He moved his hand up to the cut, lightly poking it to make sure it didn't need stitches.

A soft knocking on his office door startled him so badly, that he accidentally jabbed his finger right into the middle of gash, and making him yelp slightly in pain.

"For the love of God!" He snapped, striding towards the door with anger boiling furiously inside of him. "Will I have no peace from imbeciles, making idiotic requests for things they know very well how to-" he paused his ranting as he unceremoniously threw his office door open with such a force that the windows rattled. "What?" he yelled before actually looking at who he was addressing.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Thornton." Margaret said so quietly he could hardly hear it. "I didn't mean to bother you; my father-my father simply wondered if we could expect you for dinner this evening, but I will tell him how busy you are. Please forgive me for taking you away from your work." Before he could do anything to prevent it, she turned away from him and hurried back down the stair, never once looking him in the face. John was stunned into silence, to appalled by his own actions to call after her. It was several minutes before he was able to move, acutely aware of how bizarre he looked with his mouth hanging open and staring in shock down an empty staircase.

He closed his door softly and with deliberate calmness, before sitting down at his desk, rubbing his face in a weary manner. _No wonder she doesn't want you_ his mind sneered before he could stop it. He sighed before he got up, collecting his jacket on his way out. There was absolutely no way he would be able to focus on anything but his appalling attitude now, and he would much rather do it in the comfort of his own home.

* * *

John opened the front door as quietly as he could. He had determined that he would not ask his mother about the particulars of her visit to Margaret, and was consequently avoiding her. He was quite certain that anything his mother would have to say about Margaret would only annoy him. His entire household seemed to be teeming with the tension of his unspoken emotions. The fact that he was avoiding both his mother and sister probably didn't help much, but he couldn't help it. He shrank from every opportunity from hearing Margaret's very name mentioned. He could escape her somewhat effectively during the course of his day, he could find things to occupy his mind, but he could not escape his dreams. And in his dreams she danced towards him with her arms outstretched and a joyfulness in her countenance that made him loathe her, even while it allured him. But this impression of Margaret's figure was, however alluring, not her. It was as though some evil spirit had gotten possession of her form and ripped out her personality entirely. Yet this image of her was so deeply branded in his mind that he had a difficult time discerning between the two. His complete hatred of the dream-Margaret disfigured his view of the real one-and yet he was too proud to acknowledge his weakness by avoiding the sight of her. He would neither seek an opportunity to be in her company, or avoid it. He would face his pain and fears with his head held high, and no one would ever be aware of the torment inside him. In a somewhat misguided sense of power over his emotions, he lingered over his remaining business, pacing around the study in his home, and reading each individual piece of business correspondence. He put down the letter he was forcing himself to read and scoffed at himself. He, while he blamed her, while he loathed her, while he was jealous of her, while he renounced her, loved her completely in spite of himself. He sighed again before sneaking away to Crampton.

* * *

Dixon looked somewhat surprised to see him, but showed him to the study, which was occupied only by Mr. Bell.

"Thornton!" Bell exclaimed upon seeing him. "What a surprise this is, Margaret said you wouldn't be able to join us." John said nothing, but shook the man's hand out of sheer politeness. Inwardly he was cringing at the memory of Margaret's quiet voice in his office. There was an awkward silence during which John could hear the distant noise from the ceiling that meant Margaret was pacing above floors. He cringed again knowing he was probably the cause. "Ah yes," Mr. Bell stated, looking upwards. "Poor Margaret's had a lot on her plate lately. I doubt she even realizes we can hear her, and I for one am not inclined to shed light on it." John sighed and nodded.

"I confess that I myself am not inclined to make her cautious of something that gives her peace." John said, without really thinking about it. Mr. Bell looked quizzically at him, with one eyebrow arched. "Every time I have called since Mrs. Hale's passing it's been this way." he said quickly, feeling the need to explain himself. "I assumed it must give her some sort of relief, as she does it so very much." Mr. Bell nodded at him, and began to inquiring after his mother, and the mill, and eventually, business. They did have several business matters they needed to discuss, but truthfully, John wanted nothing more than to be out of this irritating conversation, and to be upstairs making some attempt to apologize to Margaret. Or even just to hear her voice…or just look at her. Anything to be in her presence, and out of the monotonous business talk, no matter what he tried to convince himself. They talked for quite sometime, until Mr. Bell was silenced by the sudden absence of noise from the above.

"How rude we are being!" Mr. Bell exclaimed. "Come, let us join Richard and Margaret upstairs." John walked behind him, and focused intently on containing his nervousness and excitement, his ears straining to catch anything Margaret might be saying. She had the softest, loveliest voice in the whole world. As it was, he was unable to hear anything until Mr. Bell walked into the room, and Mr. Hale addressed him.

"…Had a letter from Henry; it makes Margaret very hope-John!" Mr. Hale exclaimed. "Oh, I am so glad you were able to come! Margaret said you were frightfully busy, thank you so much for making time to see us!" It did not escape John's notice that Mr. Hale said that Margaret received a letter from a man named Henry. He also distinctly heard the term 'frightfully busy' and he hoped against hope that those weren't Margaret's exact words. He glanced at Margaret, who was sitting in the corner determinedly stitching something, and blushing as furiously as he'd ever seen her. He scowled. This Henry must be the man who was at the station.

He suddenly felt the strong inclination to leave the room that very moment and never set foot in the house again.

"You were so long downstairs." Mr. Hale stated before John was able to put actions to his thoughts. "Were you finally taking Margaret's advice and trying to convert Mr. Thornton?" Mr. Hale chuckled; under normal circumstances, John would have been curious to understand what in the world they were talking about, but now…he really couldn't care less. Mr. Hale must have noticed the frown he wore, for he went on to explain: "We were accusing Mr. Bell this morning of a kind of…medieval bigotry so to speak against his hometown. We-that is to say, Margaret believed it would do him good to associate some with Milton manufactures, hence the invitation you received this morning."

"I beg your pardon!" Mr. Bell cried in mock indignation. "Margaret thought it would do Milton manufacturers good to associate with Oxford men, now isn't that right Margaret?" John tried not to look at her, but as soon as her soft voice sounded, his eyes seemed to seek out her form against his will.

"I believe I said it would both good to see a little more of the other." She glanced quickly in his direction-not meeting his eyes, of course, but the intention could not be missed. "I did not know that it was my idea, anymore than it was papa's."

"So you see Mr. Thornton, we should actually have been improving each other rather than discussing business and family matters. I am however willing to do my part now." Mr. Bell remarked in an amused tone. John didn't particularly trust whatever plan Mr. Bell had concocted in that sneaky mind of his. He was well known for his ability to make you tell him all your secrets without even realizing you were doing it. He made a gesture for John to sit, which he did in a suspicious manner, and couldn't help narrowing his eyes at him. "I wonder," he continued. "When do you Milton men actually intend to live? It seems your whole lives are spent trying to gather the materials to live."

"By living I suppose you mean enjoyment." John replied tersely.

"Well, yes enjoyment." Mr. Bell replied jovially. "I don't specify of what because I'm sure we have quite different idea's on which aspects of live give us the most pleasure." John knew he was baiting him.

"I would rather have the nature of enjoyment defined."

"Well, enjoyment of leisure, enjoyment of the power and influence which money gives. You are all striving for money, am I right? What do you want it for?"

John was quiet for a moment, unintentionally glancing very swiftly in Margaret's direction. "I really don't know;" he replied. "But money is not what _I_ strive for."

"What then?" It was not Mr. Bell who asked, but Mr. Hale. John wished desperately that he could make change his current mood from deplorable, to at least moderately agreeable.

"It's really a home question." John said slowly, looking at his hand. "I shall have to lay myself open to such a catechist, and I am not sure that I am prepared to do it."

"No!" Mr. Hale exclaimed. "Don't let us be personal in our catechism. You are, neither of you, representative men, you are both too individual for that." Mr. Bell laughed openly.

"I am not sure whether I should take that as a compliment or not!" He replied, still chuckling a little. John scowled slightly at Mr. Bell's joviality; it was really starting to annoy him. "I should like to be the representative of Oxford, with it's beauty, and learning, and history…What do you think Margaret? Should I be flattered by such a comment?"

"I don't know Oxford," Margaret said, her voice a little firmer than it had been during her last speech. "But there is a difference between being the representative of a _city_, and the representative man of its _inhabitants_."

"Very true, Margaret." Mr. Bell continued. "I remember now that you were quite against me this morning. Now I remember how passionately your defense of Milton and it's manufacturing was against me." John's head snapped towards her in surprise, but she was looking toward the window opposite him.

"Oh I wish I could show you the beauty of our High Street," Bell continued. "Our Radcliffe Square…I will of course, leave out the colleges as I give Mr. Thornton leave to omit the mills when describing his passions of charm in Milton." This statement annoyed John more than it probably should have. He knew Mr. Bell was baiting for some underhanded purpose of his own, he knew that this was all meant to be light hearted conversation. John really wasn't in the mood for joking at the moment, and felt his pride rising up to come to Milton's defense.

"I don't resume to set Milton up as the model of perfect society, Mr. Bell."

"Not even in architecture?" Mr. Bell replied slyly.

"Of course not! We've all been far too busy to attend to mere outward appearances."

"But they aren't just _mere_ outward appearances, John." Mr. Hale commented gently. "These appearances impress us all-from childhood and up-every day of our life."

"Yes," John replied. "But remember we are not the Greeks, to whom beauty was everything, and also to whom Mr. Bell might speak of a life of leisure and serene enjoyment. Most of which entered through their outward senses. I do not mean to despise them, but we are not such men. We look on life as a time of action and exertion. Our glory and beauty arise solely from our inward strength, which makes us victorious over material resistance, and over even greater difficulties."

"Well I revoke what I said this morning about Milton men not having a reverence for the past!" Mr. Bell exclaimed in a somewhat mocking tone.

"If we do not reverence the past as you do in Oxford it is only because we are looking for something more modern, that could actually apply to our current circumstances. With strikes, for example, it would be difficult to reflect on Utopian society and try to apply it to the current trials. Strikes are troublesome, and extremely costly, which I am only finding out now, when it is too late to seek wisdom on the matter. This last strike, under which I am _still_ recovering from, has been quite respectable."

"A respectable strike?" Mr. Bell scoffed. Something inside John snapped at his words, and he could practically _feel_ his blood boiling. His faced flushed in anger, and he opened his mouth to tell Mr. Bell off.

"Edith tells me that she finds the printed calicoes in Corfu better and cheaper than in London." Margaret said in a clear voice to her father. John shut his mouth, silently fuming at not being able to tell Mr. Bell off.

"Does she now?" Her father replied. "Are you sure, Margaret? It seems as though it is probably just one of her exaggerations."

"I am sure she says so Papa." She said quietly. John was still to angry to look anyone in the face. Instead he stared at his hands with such an intensity they could have burst into flames.

"Then I must be sure as well!" Mr. Bell exclaimed happily. John visibly flinched. He hated this man more than anything in that moment. His voice sounded like some horrible, grinding, un-oiled machine driving it's noise mercilessly into his skull and giving him no peace. He considered getting up and leaving once again, but was once more halted before his plans could be acted upon by Mr. Bell speaking again. "Margaret, you are such an honest and truthful person, that it completely covers any blemish on your cousin's character. I am inclined to believe she could never exaggerate."

"You believe Miss Hale is really such a beacon of truthfulness?" John remarked bitterly. The moment he said the words he could have bitten off his own tongue. _What was he?_ What kind of person was he to use her one misdeed against her in such a way. To scorn her publicly in front of her father, all because he was so possessed by his horrible disposition this evening for being detained from her for so long, so irritated by the mention of some name because he thought it belonged to her beloved, angry at his own inability to control his emotions during his conversation with Mr. Bell… Mr. Bell who somehow missed the biting tone of his remark to Margaret, and was now continuing a pleasant conversation with Mr. Hale about Greece as though nothing had happened. He looked over at Margaret, expecting her to get up and leaves as she usually did when she found him annoying, and saw with a horrible stabbing pang of guilt, that she was looking right at him. For the first time in weeks he looked into her beautiful blue eyes, and they were staring back into his own. She was completely still, and her face showed a grieved surprise, like that of a small child being scolded for doing something they thought was completely innocent. Slowly it changed to a pitiful, reproachful sadness that shone brightly from her eyes that pierced him to his soul. She lowered her gaze to her lap, and began furiously sewing the fabric that lay there, not speaking again. He looked at his own hands in shame.

He tried to stay semi-involved in the conversation between the two other men in the room, but it was impossible. Guilt claimed a savage burning path into his chest, and ravaged him with shame of what he had just done. Her expression of betrayal was burning into his soul, and nothing could ever assuage the pain it brought him. When he looked at her next, he could see her entire body was trembling, even her hands, which moved the needle and thread swiftly and precisely through the fabric. Still she did not look up at him.

All of his answers were short and clipped. He couldn't properly focus on the conversations that were progressing well enough to give any detailed answers. John was anxious for any noise from Margaret: a cough, a comment on something her father said, even the noise her dress would make if she would simply _look_ up at him. He could convey every heartfelt apology into a look, and maybe she wouldn't be so distraught. He knew then that she could not love him; if she even felt the smallest regard, he had surely obliterated it with his disgusting comment. Perhaps one day he might earn the privilege of telling her exactly how much he regretted that remark.

John ended the visit earlier than he had intended to, and walked as slowly as possibly home. He even detoured through the park so that he could collect himself completely before facing his mother. The fresh air sobered him back into his resolution of seeing as absolute little of her as possible. Even if it meant he could not spend as much time with her father. He could not do it. He obviously had so little control over himself around her, that he couldn't even keep his snide thoughts about her lover to himself! He was reminded bitterly of the saying 'It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.'

Well, he knew what love was. Love was a sharp, controlling stab directly into your heart, a fierce, violently painful experience, and his was right in the midst of it's flame.

As soon as Mr. Thornton was gone from the room, Margaret rose slowly from her chair and began folding her work. The seams felt unnaturally heavy in her hands, and she had to will her arms to move. She felt exhausted, and wished nothing more than to be in the comforting quiet of her bedroom.

"'I never saw a man so spoiled by success!" Mr. Bell said gravely. "He can't bear a jest of any kind. Everything seems to touch on the soreness of his high dignity! He never used to be this way-he was as simple and noble as the open day; you could not offend him if you tried, because he had no vanity."

"He has no vanity now." Margaret spoke with quiet distinction. She turned from the table to face them. "He was not himself today, something must have happened at the Mill before he came here."

"Whatever can you mean, my dear?" her father asked concerned. Margaret shrugged slightly before bidding them goodnight.

"Richard," Mr. Bell began as soon as they were certain Margaret could not hear. "Did it ever strike you that your daughter and Mr. Thornton share a tenderness for each other?"

"Never!" Mr. Hale exclaimed. "No, surely if there were any affection, it would all be on John's side, although I must say I hope it isn't the case. I'm quite sure Margaret would not have him if he asked."

Nevertheless, as much as Mr. Hale tried, he could not deny that there must be _something_ between them.


	6. Chapter 6

So a few things before we get started here: First, this story has been following the original story pretty well; I changed a few things here and there, and made sure to mention them along the way. In answer to the many reviewers asking this same question, no, I do not intend to follow the main story line from here on out. I _do_ have a different ending planned out, and I _will_ be continuing, even though the summary only makes reference to the fainting incident. Also, I'm planning on speeding things up a little.

In the book, the night after John makes his snide comment to Margaret, Bell leaves to go back to Oxford, but I was thinking about having him stay a little longer with the Hale's, and having her Father go a little earlier to Oxford with him. Which I'll probably end up writing in this chapter. . But then again, I might not do that at all. I haven't quite decided completely. I have a clear knowledge of where the plot is going to go, I'm just trying to get there, haha. I hate writing filler chapters sometimes. Hopefully, I'll think of something super interesting a few pages down, and I'll be able to make it as un-filler as possible. There will be a few other differences, but I shant elaborate any further; I just hope you know the story well enough by now to spot which differences I put in place. Of course, if you're ever in confusion about it, feel free to ask me! =)

Also, SUPER IMPORTANT: Margaret did urge Nicholas to speak to Thornton about taking work with him, I just didn't see it necessary for me to write in. We all know it takes place. So that happened exactly as it did in the book (or movie, for those who didn't read the book), the only difference is that Mr. Thornton never found out that it was at Margaret's urging. So keep that in mind for this chapter, or you will be immensely confused. I'm going to start drifting away from all the direct associations with the novel, as the plot (in this chapter especially) will be breaking away from the original story line.

Secondly: thank you for the wonderful reviews, and for letting me know that I'm still keeping you interested in what's going to happen between John and Margaret.

**QOP**, you mentioned you were starting to hate Margaret, and now I'm curious, haha. Why? =)

**Miltongirl**, Thank you! Soon, very soon, the time will come for confrontation. However I cannot say things will be worked out soon; because they wont. That's far off in the distance.

**To the rest of you**: Thanks again, and please do not hesitate to send me your thoughts on what you're about to read!

* * *

Chapter Six

Margaret Hale was pacing. Not that it was so very unusual; it had become a rather annoying habit she seemed to have picked up after her mother died. I seemed to add a clarity to her thoughts when she had many that were in the forefront of her mind. So naturally, she seemed to be pacing all day long. Thinking of _him_-she could not even bring herself to think his name- always made her restless in a way she did not understand. She wanted nothing more than to have him understand her once and for all. To have him know the entire truth, to apologize for her hateful rejection. The idea that there was someone in the world who disliked her as vehemently as he did, and to have the knowledge that no matter what she said to him, or if he ever forgave her, she deserved every bit of his scorn. She had never known the power of one's emotions before she had met him. They frightened her. The realization that she had once been the key to his everlasting happiness, that one tiny word from her had the power to make or break him as a man…..it was terrifying. Of course, there was no doubt in her mind that she wouldn't be able to do anything like that again. Even if he did trust her enough, he certainly did not care for her anymore….that was painfully obvious. The notion made her feel a little…empty inside.

It seemed as though fate was conspiring against her wish to make things right with him. Every time she was around him, every single time there was an opportunity for her to show him that she appreciated him, something would happen that made it impossible. But Margaret was confident that somehow, she would get her chance; God would not let her prayers go unanswered, and she would make things right with him, no matter if it took her every remaining year she had on the earth.

But fate seemed to have other plans for her, and saw fit to intervene once more.

One day, several weeks after _his_ last visit, she went to visit the Higgins'. It had been some time since she had seen Nicholas, as he had been working at the Mill as much as he was allowed, and she was looking forward to seeing all the Boucher children as well. It was still freezing out as they were in the full throws of the northern winter, and her father and Mr. Bell seemed quite content to stay in each other's company for an indefinite amount of time. So Margaret would go alone.

"Oh Miss Margaret!" Mary exclaimed when opened the door. She threw her arms around Margaret in a warm embrace. "Oh it is so good to see you! It's been some time!"

"Yes, it has." Margaret replied, her voice a little scratchy from lack of use. "I'm sorry for not coming more often; I'm afraid my mind has been rather distracted of late." Mary ushered her inside and out of the cold.

"Don't trouble yourself, it's been a busy time for you. Think no more of it." Mary smiled so warmly at her, that Margaret's spirits couldn't help but lift a little. Soon, all the Boucher children were clamoring to see her. They wanted to tell her of everything that she had missed, all the lovely pictures they had drawn, and new words they had learned to read. She felt so much more at ease here, praising the children, and receiving their unconditional affection in return. For a few hours, Margaret was able to forget about Mr. Thornton. It was so nice to smile, to laugh, and to rejoice with others. It was something she had not been able to do for a while. She told stories, and played games, and taught the children new words, enjoying herself so much that when Mary asked her to stay for dinner she quite happily obliged.

After much insistence on Margaret's part, she began to help Mary prepare dinner, but not until she set the children up singing a cheerful song, and tidying things up for when Nicholas arrived home from work.

"Sing wif us Miss Margwet!" The youngest begged.

"And you too, Mary!" Johnny called. Margaret paused chopping the vegetables, and turned to the eager shining faces of the young children.

"Oh very well," she sighed dramatically. "Only if you promise not to lose track of your chores!" The children nodded happily and continued their singing, joined now by Margaret and Mary.

Margaret didn't think she'd ever been happier than in that moment; there, in the small run-down home of the Higgins family with the six Boucher children singing and dancing whilst tidying up, and she herself preparing dinner with Mary. She smiled as she peeled potatoes, a genuine smile that had such a profound effect within her that she could even feel a little bubble of joy forming in her chest, threatening to explode with euphoric laughter. The bubble made her want to laugh until she cried, to jump, sing, dance, and play with the children until she couldn't breathe. As it was, her face felt as though it were cracking from the strain of the enormous smile she wore. She thanked God that these children had been placed on the Earth, if for nothing else than giving her this moment. She wished that her father was there with her, so that she could share in her newfound happiness with him. He could have a taste of what it was to be completely carefree for a time. Even if it was only for a night. Nothing could dampen the mood she had so long suppressed; not even Mr. Thornton.

"What have we here?" A booming voice exclaimed from behind the half-opened front door. "A very merry party you lot seem to be this evening!"

"Hello Nicholas!" Margaret called cheerfully from her position near the fire. She glanced up quickly at him, but never ceased in peeling the potato she was working on. He was making his way inside, still on the threshold, and appeared to be attempting to keep the snow from his boots from entering the home. She picked up her singing again at the next verse.

"Miss Margaret, is that you?" Nicholas called back. "I should've known this would be your doing." He chuckled slightly as he looked at the children. "My, it's been so long since I've seen ya, and may you're looking quite jolly this evening!" Margaret laughed and blushed furiously at both his compliment, and in guilt for not having visited sooner. "What'd ya say, Master?"

"Yes Miss Hale, I must admit that although I have never seen you in a setting like this, you are looking very well." Margaret jumped so violently at the sound of his voice, that her head shot up and she completely forgot about the potato she was halfway through peeling.

"Oh!" Margaret exclaimed, dropping the knife and looking at her hand. She must have looked away from the potato mid-swipe, because it appeared that her thumb had become it's replacement. Blood seeped quickly from her thumb, immediately ruining all the potatoes in the process. She made to wrap it in her apron, before a hand gently arrested her movements. Mr. Thornton had stepped closer to her, and taken her hand in his own. He lifted it slightly, and bent his head towards the wound, looking at it closely.

Margaret felt as though her face might actually be steaming from the heat there. What was he even _doing _here? Months of passing her over, refusing to speak to her unless _absolutely_ necessary, that horrible insinuation at dinner a few weeks before…._What was he doing to her?_ Was this his idea of fair punishment for everything she had put him through? As though he believed that ignoring her in every situation wasn't enough, now he was playing with her emotions, and making her hope…

She was hoping? Hoping for what? Either she didn't know, or she would not let herself answer the question. She realized that she had been staring open-mouthed at Mr. Thornton, who was still looking very intently at her hand. She tore her gaze away from his face, and noticed that he was cleaning her thumb off with a wet cloth. _Where did that come from?_ she thought. _How long was I staring at him!_ She was looking at his face again; there would never be another opportunity such as this one, where Mr. Thornton wasn't glaring at her and giving her a well deserved cold-shoulder. So Margaret completely took advantage of the situation, and secretly memorized every part of his face she could, for reasons she didn't understand at all. He was saying something, she noticed then. His lips were moving, but Margaret couldn't hear anything. Her heart was racing in her chest, and the rushing sound it brought was thundering through her. He glanced quickly up at her, and Margaret was surprised to see the mischief that twinkled in his eyes, and his half upturned lips as though he were making a joke. She laughed so nervously, it came out more as a breathy chuckle, for reasons that had nothing to do with whatever it was he had said. She barely even noticed when he lead her over to a chair to sit. It was Nicholas Higgins voice that brought her out of her Mr. Thornton induced haze.

"Margaret, how do you always manage to do these things to yourself?" he asked. All her senses were returning to her now. The children still danced and sang, Mary had taken the potatoes to be washed thoroughly, Nicholas was smiling down at her, his eyes twinkling merrily, but most prevalent of all was the man in front of her. John Thornton, holding her hand, and gently wrapping it in a dry strip of cloth, before tying a knot at the top. He held her hand a moment more, and although it was probably considered improper, Margaret couldn't care less.

"Oh, you know me Nicholas." She replied, still a little breathless. "I'm always finding some way of hurting myself." She smiled, and looked down to Mr. Thornton, who was still holding her hand, although very gently. He didn't look at her as she spoke, but she almost thought she spotted a tiny smile on his face. A boldness grew within her at the sight of that little smile; a boldness to do exactly the thing she had been wishing to do for months. She would be as she had been before Mr. Thornton had arrived, and no one, not even he, could spoil this day for her. Here was her opportunity to show him that she appreciated him, more than even she herself probably realized. It had been weeks since she'd resolved to show Mr. Thornton the same kindness she had shown her. Now there was nothing getting in her way. A small, very tiny part of her felt a small vindictive pleasure at the possibility of making him feel guilty for how horrible he had been to her, but she instantly squashed the thoughts, before grinding them into dust.

She deserved every bit of his disdain; those very thoughts alone proved that, even if none of her other actions did. He deserved to be treated with kindness; if she was lucky, perhaps he would receive her kindness without thinking she was buttering him up for some ulterior motive.

Mr. Thornton let go of her hand, and resumed his place next to Nicholas. "Well, Miss Hale," he said, resuming his normal aloofness. Margaret was acutely aware of the pain in her hand now that his had left it. "It should be fine, but I don't recommend you continue to try and peel potatoes." Margaret, who had been looking at her hand, looked up at his face in surprise. The twinkling jest was there in his eye, even though his face still remained void of expression. That was all the encouragement she needed; she smiled openly at him.

"Thank you Mr. Thornton." she replied. "I'll keep that in mind for the next time I try to help with the cooking." Nicholas laughed loudly.

"Well, I'm sure glad you're here, Miss." He said, still laughing a little. Margaret blushed again.

With very little help from Margaret, dinner was eventually served. They all, even Mr. Thornton, laughed, and smiled, and played with the children until the children were so tired, one of them actually fell asleep in Margaret's arms. Margaret spent most of the night admiring how amazing it was that something so simple as laughter could transform a man's features so completely. He hardly even looked the same; his eyes practically danced, and his expression looked years younger. He had almost a boy-like vivacity about him that made Margaret's heart flutter a little. Soon, Nicholas declared it was time for the children to go upstairs to bed. Mary rose and began to usher the children towards the staircase, and Nicholas made to get the slumbering child out of Margaret's arms.

"Oh no, Nicholas." Margaret said, suddenly extremely apprehensive to be left alone in Mr. Thornton's presence. "Don't trouble yourself; Mary and I will see the children to bed tonight." Nicholas smiled warmly at her, and Margaret carefully lifted herself out of the chair, taking extra care not to jostle the small child. In the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Thornton rise with her, but for some reason or another she couldn't bring herself to look over at him. Perhaps it had something to do with the burning wave of nervousness that attacked her completely unannounced. She walked briskly over to the stairs, where the children were slowly making their way up one by one.

It didn't take very long to get the children settled in. Upon kissing them all goodnight, she made her way back to the staircase, bumping into Mary along the way.

"I think I'll retire, myself." Mary said, before reaching forward to embrace Margaret once more. "It's been a busy day. Thank you so much for coming to see us today Miss. I don't think I've seen father quite so happy since before poor Bessie died." Margaret smiled at the memory of her dear friend.

"Well, I can only say how sorry I am for not coming sooner, if that is the case. I hope to be able to come over more frequently once things settle down a bit." Mary gave her an understanding smile before slipping through a door without another word. Margaret sighed before walking through the remainder of the hallway as quietly as possible. She descended the stairs with a quiet grace, her eyes focused on her neatly wrapped thumb, and her thoughts swarming with the gentleman who had given it such affectionate attention.

"If it wasn't for Margaret, who knows where I'd be right now?" Margaret paused right at the bottom of the stairs as Nicholas spoke her name. She wasn't really one to eavesdrop, but she wondered why Nicholas was speaking of her to Mr. Thornton.

* * *

If John Thornton thought his dislike for Margaret Hale was the most unbearable feeling he had ever experienced, it was nothing compared to the loathing he inflicted upon himself. That look-that hauntingly beautiful expression of betrayal plagued him every hour. If that was not enough for him, he realized what a coward he truly was; he was a man! And he ran like a coward from a tiny, thinly-framed woman. Yes, he realized he could very easily hate himself _more _than he hated Margaret. He had resolved on his last night at the Hale's, that he would do everything in his power to see as little of her as possible.

So John worked, and worked hard. He would drown his sorrows with his business, and pray that by the time he closed his eyes at night, his mind would be too exhausted to bring any images of Margaret up. It seemed to help his suffering heart a little, but his hyperactive mind was constantly throwing loopholes for him to dodge.

"Master," A voice interrupted him from his intense concentration on the accounting. He look up and saw Nicholas Higgins standing in the doorway to his office. John rubbed his face wearily with one hand while reaching into his waistcoat with the other.

"Good Lord," John said, looking at his watch. "Is it that late already?" Nicholas chuckled.

"Aye, Master it is; and Mary will have my head is we're too late." John had struck up an interesting, and wholly unexpected friendship of sorts with Nicholas Higgins. Occasionally, John would go home with Nicholas, and have dinner with he, Mary, and the six little Boucher children whom he was growing increasingly fond of. Tonight just happened to be such a night. The random, and completely unexpected friendship that John had begun with Nicholas Higgins was almost like a soothing balm to his aching heart. Sometimes, he would spend nearly every night at the Higgins home. A little knife of guilt would stab him occasionally when he thought of how he had nearly abandoned his friendship with Mr. Hale, but he consoled himself when he remembered that his college friend Mr. Bell was still at Crampton, and was most likely being a jollier guest than he ever could have been himself. Naturally, as John thought of Mr. Hale, his thoughts betrayed him by turning to his daughter, and it took all of his self control to focus on the conversation he was having with Nicholas as they walked towards his home.

As they got closer to the house, they began to hear the beautiful sound of singing. But not merely any singing, the wholesome and pure melody of children's voices. As he and Nicholas stood in the entry way, he heard Nicholas mumble a rhetorical question of sorts, and as they stepped inside the house together, he suddenly found he could no longer breathe. He felt as thought his entire body were on fire, every nerve completely alive and hyperaware of her presence.

John had never heard Margaret sing before. He vaguely remembered Fanny and his mother proclaiming about her lack of musical talents, what could have been a hundred years ago. That was _obviously_ a complete falsehood. Although he knew it wasn't on his mother and sister's part; they claimed that she herself made the statement first. God, did this woman have no idea what she was? What she was to him?

He chose not to answer that question.

At that moment he heard her greet Nicholas so cheerfully, that his chest literally ached in partial guilt and longing. Dear God, what would he give just to hear her show that level of excitement at him merely walking into the room. Then Nicholas asked him a question which, thanks to the many months of wandering around like a corpse, he was actually able to answer. He wasn't fully aware of what he was saying until the words left his mouth. It wasn't as though he regretted them. He just wished he could have approached civilized conversation in a somewhat…subtler manner. He stood frozen by her confused expression, and incredibly becoming blush faintly showing on her cheeks. This tantalizing vision of Margaret so completely at ease, singing with _children_, who cared that she was working in the kitchen, a position completely below her. And yet, it suited her; that she could be more at ease here, in Higgins' (very) modest home, with his seven children, making food with Mary….It made his chest ache all the more. Suddenly her gaze snapped down, and he distantly heard the sound of metal clinking on the wooden floor, and her sharp intake of breath. Margaret had somehow sliced clean into her finger, and was hastily attempting to wrap it in the apron she has donned. He couldn't help his actions; honestly. His body and hands moved entirely of their own accord, and he could only watch helplessly at what progressed.

He began to realize the implications of his actions almost immediately. Though the rest of the household would most likely notice nothing in this display, this spoke immeasurable volumes between Margaret and himself. The last time he had touched her (while she had been conscious, at least) was the day of his passionate proposal. His hands were shaking slightly, although it was hardly visible. He was terrified that he had overstepped some unspoken boundary line, and any moment her eyes would be flashing at him with anger and disdain. But no such moment came. He waited, and still she did nothing. He couldn't bring himself to look at her. Still holding her hand as gently as he could, he reached over to a conveniently located cloth and dipped it into an even more conveniently located bowl of water before ringing it out, and bringing it to her thumb. There was absolutely no difference in her demeanor. He began to feel some small resemblance of hope. Perhaps….no. he should squash that thought now!

But still…What if he could…test the waters, so to speak? He knew, perhaps better than most did, that his attitude lately was absolutely abhorrent. He was a bitter old man. But what if could show her that he wasn't always so volatile? God only knew he had more than proved his ability to be an incorrigible, offensive, discourteous ass to her. Perhaps he could, just for tonight anyways, tempt his fantasies, and attempt to woo Margaret. He nearly laughed aloud that how positively ridiculous that sounded.

"So how badly has she done herself in this time, Master?" Nicholas asked, chortling a little.

"This time?" John replied, his heart already feeling lighter than it had in ages.

"Oh yes, haven't you heard? Margaret, in all her southern graces, is disastrously clumsy." He laughed a little louder at that. John decided now was as good a time as any would be. He glanced quickly up at Margaret's face, not entirely able to school his expression beforehand. His heart immediately began to pound wildly in his chest. Her cheeks were flaming with embarrassment (at what, he wasn't quite sure), her blue eyes once again piercing into his soul, but he was taken aback by the unusual expression on her face. Her eyes looked at him in a sort of wonder, and his made his breath hitch, and his blood rush through his body at an unnaturally fast pace. He returned his gaze to her hand to finish the bandaging, and held on to it as long as he could. Perhaps a little _too_ long.

Before too long, dinner had been eaten, and the children were falling asleep right where they were. One in particular had fallen asleep on Margaret. As Mary ushered the children together for bed, Nicholas stood and made a motion for the slumbering child in Margaret's arms. She shook her head at him and firmly declined his assistance to put the child to bed. Soon they could all be heard scuttling around upstairs.

"Ah, she's a good lass she is." Nicholas said suddenly, staring off at the ceiling. John didn't know what to say, so he said nothing. "It's nice to see her smiling again. I can't say I've seen her smiling like that since before her mother died, bless her. I don't know where I'd be if it wasn't for her" John looked down at his hands feeling a little guilty for some reason. "She was with my Bess up till she died, even though her own mother was so unwell. I was so mad at her that day, too." John looked curiously over at him; he was tracing a pattern on the rough table with a tiny smile on his face.

"At Margaret?" He asked.

"Aye. She-" he stopped and laughed a little louder that time. "She looked me square in the face the day I came home and found Bess had gone, and forbade me from leaving the house to go drink."

"That sounds like something she would do." John said, making Nicholas chuckle again.

"Aye she certainly is a fierce one. You know she's the one who told me to come to you for work?" John's eyes widened in surprise.

"Really?" He asked, trying desperately not to let the hope kindling in his chest to show on the face.

"She told me to forget who you are as a Master, and to appeal to your heart. Said she knew you'd be compassionate enough to hear me out." John's heart was racing in his chest. Could Margaret really have spoken so highly of him? Did that mean that she, against all odds, perhaps had a soft spot in her heart for him after all?

But he did not listen to Nicholas originally, he had turned him away.

No, she could not care for him.

"It would seem she might not know me as well as she proclaims." He replied. "I did not hear you out, like she thought I would."

"Oh I don't know Master. I'm inclined to believe she knows you a little better than you do." John stared at him in disbelief, but Nicholas said nothing more. He merely sat there with an odd look playing about his face. The sounds of someone coming down the stairs stopped any reply that John might have come up with. Margaret suddenly appeared, smiling a little nervously and smoothing out her dress.

"Well Nicholas," She said in a clear voice. "The children are all asleep, Mary included, and I'm afraid should be going home myself." she smiled apologetically at him.

"Yes, you wouldn't want your father to get worried."

"Indeed I would not." she smiled at him again. John was always a little mesmerized by her smile, and it had been so very long since he had seen her smile…he knew he would cherish that smile forever, even though he knew it would probably never be directed at him. Perhaps it was her smile was clouding his mind, for he found he couldn't think straight. His mind was fuzzy, and he couldn't focus on the words that were coming out of Nicholas' mouth. All he could think of was Margaret, and how this wonderful evening would most likely never happen again, of how things would go back to how they had been, and of how badly he didn't want that to happen.

"May I walk you home?" He blurted out to everyone's surprise, including his own. He cringed a little at how desperate he sounded, and silently begged that Margaret didn't think he'd lost his mind. "I mean…" he added, coughing a little nervously. "It will probably be dark soon, and I'm sure your father wouldn't want you walking about so late by yourself." He looked directly at her, trying to ignore the raised eyebrows on Nicholas' face.

"I-" Margaret stuttered. "I don't think that would be very proper, Mr. Thornton, but I do thank you nonetheless." A brief memory of her claim of his lack of gentility crossed his mind, and for a moment he knew she was right, and it would be extremely improper.

Damn propriety.

"Yes, but it would be worse for me to just let leave at such a late hour alone." John noticed a little spark of something in her eyes, but could not distinguish it. "Please Miss Hale, my conscious simply will not allow it. I will gladly take any blame that may come from it." This time he could not ignore the incredulity on Nicholas' face, and as John looked over at him, the incredulity changed into a knowing smile that made him feel a little uncomfortable. He looked back at Margaret, who was looking down at her hands once more, her cheeks tinged with pink.

"I-well-I supposed I cannot dissuade you then?" she asked. John shook his head, and Nicholas laughed. Margaret took a deep breath, and extended her arm towards him, presented her bandaged hand, the one he himself had bandaged, to him with her palm open. "Shall we then?" John swallowed thickly in an attempt to drown the burning waves of anxiety, but with little success. He rose and very gently placed her hand on his arm, heart nearly exploding out of his chest at her close proximity.

"Yes," he practically whispered. "I believe we shall."

A/N: Sorry for the long space between updates. Like I said a few chapters ago, this semester has really been difficult. However, I have all my finals this week, so if I live past it, I will be updating sooner (I hope). I also had a touch of writers block with this chapter. I just felt like it went on and on and on and on…..I didn't intend to end it right here but….I caved. Lol. Also, sorry to everyone who reviewed after I started writing the chapter, and didn't get their name listed above. And please tell me what you think, to help get me out of this writers block….


	7. Chapter 7

Ah, here it comes, the infamous confrontation! I have to admit, I am incredibly excited about writing this chapter, although I am a little unsure as to how everything will play out….it won't stop my enthusiasm for getting to this part of the story. We're just getting to the good stuff now, haha. =)

And I'll admit, I was really quite nervous about my last chapter, and how you would like it…especially since it was the first chapter that I've really gone and "broken away from the book" so-to-speak. I mean, I'll still be incorporating a lot of novel, but most of everything so far (excluding the very beginning) was directly out of the original text (which I don't own, so don't even bother trying to sue), and it's a very specific style of writing. I was worried that my own would be too different, and might take away from the story, but there was such an immediate response to it, that I almost exploded in pride, lol. I've never felt quite so pleased with myself, so thank you, you wonderful people you! You bring me joy!

Anyways, onto the good stuff, nobody wants to read me rambling ;)

* * *

Chapter 7

He felt like a ball of perpetual anxiety. Surely he'd have a heart attack by the end of this walk, this seemingly short, approximately two-mile walk to Crampton…it was going to kill him with slow painful anxiety. And yet, there was this woman, a striking, beautiful, enchanting, graceful woman, that was currently walking by his side. Margaret Hale, walking next to _him._ Margaret Hale, allowing _him_ to escort her back to her house. Margaret Hale, fiddling with the bandage _he_ had wrapped around her delicate finger as gently as his rough constitution would allow. Margaret Hale who had spoken well of _him_…She was both calming, and thrilling him with nothing more than her presence beside him. His emotions were conflicting again. He opened his mouth to say something to her, but couldn't really decide on what, so he closed it again, only to open it a few seconds later in another futile attempt at conversation. Five minutes they had been walking, and all John could do was open and close his mouth like an idiot. He wondered if she was as nervous about their situation as he was.

"You really don't have to be doing this Mr. Thornton, if it makes you uncomfortable…" Margaret said suddenly, her voice practically a whisper.

He sighed, a little disappointed. _He_ was making her nervous, she didn't _want_ to be here with him, walking side-by-side. His chest began to ache again, but he did what he could to ignore it.

"I doesn't make me nervous." He replied shortly. He hadn't meant to sound so severe, truly. He was focusing so much on his ridiculous anxiety, he felt he couldn't help that it sounded so clipped. He chanced a glance in her direction, and noticed she was still looking down at her bandaged finger, fiddling a bit with the ends.

"Nicholas told me it was you that convinced him to come to Marlborough Mills." He said finally, in an attempt to make things more lighthearted. "I wanted to thank you for it, he's a great worker. More than that, he's a friend; something I confess, I have been missing as of late…"

"I merely spoke the truth, you owe me no thanks, Mr. Thornton."

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. I told him my opinion of you. Your character speaks for itself, Mr. Thornton, and it needs nothing from me to make it greater than it already is." He could hardly believe his ears. She was…complimenting him? He wanted to thank her, but he was so unaccountably embarrassed by such praise, that it rendered him speechless.

"I highly doubt I'm worthy of your praise…" He finally said, though quietly enough that she probably did not hear him.

Was he imagining her somewhat saddened demeanor? Did she think that he didn't wish to be around her? Well, it could hardly be her fault if she did feel that way…he wasn't really doing very much to convince her that he wanted anything to do with her. In many ways, he didn't want anything to do with her. He shied away from her family and her name for a reason: it brought him pain, and he supposed it was only human nature to shy away from the things that bring you grief…but then, he had brought _her_ grief, and here she was. But she did insist on going home alone; perhaps it was her attempt to shy away from her own pain. Was it wrong of him to assume that he was the source of her misery? Of course it was! How could he just assume that her diminished countenance had anything to do with him, when her own mother had only so recently passed away. Why couldn't he get rid of the feeling of hope that was still burning inside him? It was going to be difficult enough to move past this evening and continue on as things had always been without this insane hope that his heart was kindling against his own will-

"Mr. Thornton?" Margaret asked, looking at him quizzically. He jumped slightly and turned to face her. "Did you hear what I said?" She had said something? How could he not have noticed, they were the only two people on the street. Ages he'd been half wanting, half dreading the opportunity to speak with her like this. No distractions, no propriety, just the two of them having a normal conversation. Now he was so consumed by his own thoughts he couldn't even distinguish when she spoke-

He really needed to stop thinking so much.

"Uh-N-No, I'm sorry…I was just…" He trailed off, unsure as to what he should say. Margaret looked away, and he felt himself deflate a little. He had just began kicking himself for his stupidity when he heard her giggling. He snapped his head back to look at her, and noticed she wasn't next to him anymore. She had stopped a few feet behind him, hand pressed over her mouth in a futile attempt to disguise the fact that she was giggling at him. As soon as she caught his eye however, she burst into peals of laughter. It should have irritated him, possibly even made him angry, that there was a beautiful woman whom he was madly in love with, who was currently standing a few feat away from him openly laughing at him. But he was too transfixed to be angry. Margaret was smiling at him her eyes sparkling with mirth, and he could focus on nothing else; he just stood there, his face probably showing all the confusion and wonder that he felt. His mouth was even open a little, as though he might say something. Margaret was laughing so hard now, she had to bend over a little. One hand placed over her stomach, she continued to laugh, and in spite of everything, John felt himself laughing as well. Before he realized fully what was happening, he was bent over, laughing at nothing and everything all at once. He laughed until his sides burned, and his face was aching at the effort of smiling so much. When the laughter subsided he looked over to Margaret, who was wiping tears of laughter from her face and smiling at him. Without a moments hesitation she walked over to him, and boldly took his hands in her own. His entire body jolted from the feeling of her holding his hands.

"Thank you, Mr. Thornton," she said earnestly, smiling her glorious, beautiful smile at him. He couldn't help but smile in return, chest practically exploding with emotion.

"I can't think of what I've done that would require your thanks." He replied, laughing a little throughout. He should be thanking _her_ for allowing him into her company, for making him feel as though nothing existed but this moment, for holding his hands and making his heart soar.

"Everything!" She replied breathlessly. "For being so kind to my mother and father, for taking Nicholas on at the Mill, for helping him look after the poor Boucher children…for making me laugh, and forget the world. Oh, I do not think I have laughed like that since I was a little girl!" She laughed again, and John noticed that her eyes were sparkling once more. His heart was pounding so hard he was sure she might hear it.

"I'm afraid," He started, taking a deep breath to calm himself. "I do not deserve any of the gratitude you are so graciously bestowing on me. I do not believe I am the one ultimately responsible for the fact that Nicholas now works at the Mill. I have only just found out that _you _were the one who insisted he come to me in the first place."

"Yes, but it would mean nothing if you would not have given him a place in the Mill."

"But I never would have, if it weren't for your influence in my life."

"Mr. Thornton!" Margaret exclaimed, laughing again. "You cannot dissuade me from my good opinion of you, no matter how hard you try! You are wasting your time." She smiled up at him still, clearly unaware of the incredibly powerful effect they had over him. They made him forget about everyone and everything. They made him want to crush her body to his and never let go. They made him want to pull her hands forward and close the gap between them, allowing him to kiss her senseless. They made him want to lift one hand up to gently trace the contours of her face, bathed in glorious moonlight. To see her eyes sparkling at him as his fingers ghosted over her cheek and forehead, tucking a loose strand behind her ear before cupping her face completely. He could imagine it with complete clarity, the slight shiver through her body when he touched her for the first time, the way her eyelids would flutter closed as he opened his hand, the way she would lean into it once it was flush against her skin, the small sigh of contentedness that would escape her lips as she relished in his affection…alas, it was only his mind, desperately wishing for something it could never have.

_Then why was his hand on her face?_

He jolted back into reality. The reality where his imagination had clouded his self-control. The reality where his hand _really was_ on Margaret's soft, slightly cold face, and she _really was _leaning into his touch, and she _really had_ let a small sigh escape past her beautiful red lips, where the warmth of her breath could still be seen in the cold night air. Something was happening to him and didn't quite understand it. It was as though he could not control his own body anymore, as though it had been taken over by the wills of his sub consciousness, and his sub consciousness was willing him to move forward, to close the tiny distance between them, and to claim her as his own in a heart-stopping, mind-blowing, reality-shattering kiss. He wanted this so bad…Dear God he wanted this with his very soul.

Surely he was having a heart attack.

He dropped his hand slowly, painfully almost, and watched her eyes open, searching them for the answers to all his doubts and questions. Now was not the time to do this. Now was the time to take her home, away from the cold, to show her how a man really treats a woman whom he loves with all his being, with the respect demanded by propriety…He stiffened as the memory of an all-to-familiar situation came to the forefront of his mind. How he wished he could wipe his mind of the incident altogether. He felt it was poisoning every good moment he had with her, just as it was poisoning his heart. He almost laughed aloud at his earlier thought to show her how a man would treat a woman he loved…well he had most assuredly loved her for many months, and he had also most assuredly been the most incorrigible, hateful person towards her. He sighed, placed her hand in the crook of his arm and said: "Come Miss Hale, I do not want your father to worry" before dropping into his pit of self-loathing. He was so absorbed in his thoughts he didn't notice the small smile still playing about Margaret's lips while she unintentionally pulled herself closer to him. Ten minutes passed before a noise broke the silence. John looked down at Margaret, and noticed she was once more attempting to stifle a giggle.

"At least I'm a source of amusement to you." John told her jokingly, not really thinking about the very serious weight his words had until after he had spoken them. He winced slightly, but Margaret laughed a little louder, and it went unnoticed.

"Oh please forgive me, Mr. Thornton!" She said, wiping at her eyes once more. "Truly, I do not mean anything cruel by it."

"Then by all means, do enlighten me."

"Well," she paused, seemingly searching for words. He noticed the beginning of a red flush blossoming on her cheeks. "It's only-I have never known you to be so…without words." John looked at her quizzically. "I mean-" she sighed exasperatedly, and John smiled at her embarrassment, secretly delighting in her blush. "'The Great John Thornton, Master of Marlborough Mills'-" her blush deepened still, and his heart must've skipped three, perhaps even four beats at way his name sounded when she spoke it. "People speak so well of you, and you are not a man to be easily lost in a conversation…suddenly, it seems as though you cannot find anything to say. I must admit, I am a little amused by it." she would not look at him as she finished. He beamed at this unwarranted praise, and started to laugh.

"I'm not all that people say about me, Miss Hale." He replied.

"No, you're certainly not. I think you're more."

John lay awake the entire night, smiling more than he had ever smiled before.

A/N: please please please please SUPER please review! =D


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Alright, I couldn't resist continuing. I really shouldn't have posted that so soon…I really should have just continued with the chapter and made it longer….buuut I couldn't resist giving you something. Besides, this chapter will (at least, I'm pretty certain it will) be long, and I couldn't bear to keep you waiting for so long. Plus, who knows how often I'll be able to post once semester starts again…on Monday….*sigh* Winter Break isn't nearly long enough.

You're going to flip when you find out where I'm taking this…

* * *

Chapter Eight

Margaret could hardly believe that Mr. Thornton was walking her home. After months of so much incivility, so much disdain…she felt as though it was all washing away. Each step she took by his side was a step towards friendship. A step away from all the heartrending grief that seemed to be swallowing her whole. She desperately hoped he would say something, anything, to her. That maybe, just maybe, he wasn't quite as tortured by her presence as he had been recently. Glancing over at him nervously, her heart sank as she noticed how incredibly stern he looked in that moment. Giving herself a few moments to gather up some courage, she opened her mouth to speak.

"You really don't have to be doing this Mr. Thornton, if it makes you uncomfortable…" Her voice came out as a whisper, despite the fact that she was determined to sound confident. She winced a little, and kept her eyes focused on the road, not brave enough to see his expression.

"It doesn't make me uncomfortable." came his short reply a few seconds later, which coincidentally did absolutely nothing to convince her otherwise. Margaret looked down at her hands, idly fiddling with the bandage he had wrapped with such overwhelming tenderness only a few hours before, wishing she knew how to bridge the enormous gap between them. How was it that he could be so…._attentive_ at dinner, and stand here now, all sternness and scowling. She knew the answer to her own question; she had known for months. He had as good as told her himself. But she wouldn't let herself voice it, even in the safety of her own mind…

"Nicholas told me it was you that convinced him to come to Marlborough Mills." He said in a somewhat forced lightheartedness. "I wanted to thank you for it, he's a great worker. More than that, he's a friend; something I confess, I have been missing as of late…" Margaret forced herself not to think, not to over analyze everything he said and did, and so she continued to stare at the ground, speaking only the first things that came to her mind.

"I merely spoke the truth, you owe me no thanks, Mr. Thornton."

"What do you mean?"

She took a deep breath. "Exactly what I said. I told him my opinion of you. Your character speaks for itself, Mr. Thornton, and it needs nothing from me to make it greater than it already is."

"I highly doubt I'm worthy of your praise…" Mr. Thornton replied so quietly, she almost didn't hear him. Her heart sank, if possible, even lower in to her stomach, and guilt washed over her in devastating waves…She forced the feeling away as much as she could before her emotions got the better of her. Already, her eyes were beginning to prick with the first unshed tears. She couldn't bear the thought of Mr. Thornton seeing her in such a state.

"You don't really think that, do you?" the words escaped her lips against her will, and part of her immediately regretted them. She felt a burning wave of nerves, and her heart thundered while she waited for him to say something. But he didn't. She looked up at him and noticed he seemed to be concentrating rather hard on the road before them. Minutes passed, and still he did not answer, and Margaret started to wonder if he'd even heard her at all.

"Mr. Thornton?" She asked. He started at the sound of her voice, and jumped a little in surprise, looking over at her with the most unusual expression she'd ever seen on his face before. "Did you hear what I said?" He just continued to stare at her with that odd expression. It was as though he had simultaneously just now noticed where he was and whom he was walking with, and perhaps witnessed her dumping a bowl of stew over her own head for no apparent reason.

"Uh-N-No, I'm sorry…I was just…" he stammered before trailing off. Margaret had never seen him like this before. His face seemingly betraying a thousand emotions, looking at her like she had sprouted a second head, and pitifully attempting to stammer out some sort of reply that wouldn't betray the fact that he hadn't been listening to her at all.

She couldn't help it, not really. The moment before, everything had seemed so serious, so completely serious, that Margaret couldn't help the laughter that escaped her at the look on his face. She tried to hide it, not wanting to insult him, but it was futile. The laughter infected her soul and soon it burst forth like an overflowing well. Mr. Thornton's initial expression of indignation did nothing to sober her. She should have stopped and apologized, but she didn't have room for any other emotion than the joyous feeling that accompanied laughter. And soon he was laughing with her, his deep laugh thrilling her soul, and his face showing none of the cares he must have had only a moment ago.

Margaret didn't think she'd ever felt happier.

"Thank you, Mr. Thornton." She said earnestly, and smiled at him once more. He smiled at her in return, and she was struck by how completely different he appeared. Gone was the serious, pained, hardworking Master of Marlborough Mills. Before her stood a young man, delighted to be sharing in this unusual experience. It was breathtaking to behold.

"I can't think of what I've done that would require your thanks." He replied, chuckling nervously. What would it take to make him see himself how she saw him? On an impulse (she seemed to be passing the entire evening on impulse), she stepped towards him and took his hands in hers. It might have been crossing boundary lines, breaking the rules of propriety, but she didn't really care. She wanted him to understand how special this night had been for her.

"Everything!" She beamed at him, suddenly breathing harder than strictly necessary. "For being so kind to my mother and father, for taking Nicholas on at the Mill, for helping him look after the poor Boucher children…for making me laugh, and forget the world. Oh, I do not think I have laughed like that since I was a little girl!"

"I'm afraid," He paused, taking a deep breath. "I do not deserve any of the gratitude you are so graciously bestowing on me. I do not believe I am the one ultimately responsible for the fact that Nicholas now works at the Mill. I have only just found out that _you _were the one who insisted he come to me in the first place."

"Yes, but it would mean nothing if you would not have given him a place in the Mill."

"But I never would have, if it weren't for your influence in my life."

"Mr. Thornton!" Margaret exclaimed, laughing again. "You cannot dissuade me from my good opinion of you, no matter how hard you try! You are wasting your time." She smiled at him. He stared at her so intently her smile faltered, and was replaced by a sensation she could not identify, and had never experienced before. Her heart was racing, and she was breathing harder to try and compensate for the sudden need of more oxygen. She watched, frozen where she stood, as Mr. Thornton removed one of his hands from hers and lifted towards her face. He barely even touched her, but where his fingers had touched her forehead and cheek blazed as though his hands were on fire, and her entire body shivered slightly. Tentatively, he moved to brush her bangs away from her face, and tucked them behind her ear. She closed her eyes, savoring this one glorious moment where there was absolutely nothing between them but the boundaries they put up themselves. She felt him move his hand to rest flat against her face, and she instinctively leaned into it's warmth. She sighed without realizing it.

But soon the warmth was gone, leaving her face colder than it had been before. She opened her eyes and looked at him, mind burning with dozens of questions. Margaret watched as his expression turned serious once more. He sighed and took her hand, placing it on his arm.

"Come Miss Hale," he said, looking quite forlorn. "I do not want your father to worry." Margaret smiled, suddenly feeling inexplicably pleased with the situation.

* * *

"Well Miss Hale," Mr. Thornton said once they reached the steps to Crampton. "Thank you for allowing me to accompany you home, despite how adamant you were against it initially." Margaret looked down at him from the steps in mock indignation.

"What are you insinuating?" She asked, still in a mock seriousness.

"Oh, no, I didn't-" He stopped and stepped forward, grabbing her hands. "Forgive me, Miss Hale, I only meant that I am honored that you allowed me to escort you." She laughed openly.

"I was merely joking, Mr. Thornton, and very poorly it seems." He opened his mouth to protest but Margaret cut him off, unusually emboldened by the way he was holding her hands. "I will forgive you on one condition." He looked at her, blue eyes piercing her own.

"Name it."

"Don't ever call me Miss Hale again."

Dear God, _had she really just said that!?_ Mr. Thornton looked at her so intensely, she could feel the heat from his gaze spreading across her face. He seemed to be fighting the thoughts in his head, and remained silent. After a few moments, he stepped forward onto the first stair, making him just a little taller than her.

"Well then." He said before taking her left hand in his, and slowly, tantalizingly raising it up to his lips and placing a lingering kiss there, effectively scorching it through and through. "Goodnight, Margaret." he said against the skin of her hand. He gave her one last searing look, before turning and walking back towards Marlborough Mills.

* * *

The morning broke cold and dreary, but John didn't notice. The whole world might have been on fire, and it quite probably would have escaped his notice. Nothing mattered to him today; nothing except the memory of his glorious walk with Margaret the previous night. It was possible that nothing would ever matter to him ever again. And so it was that John still lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment, every single breath of the night before. The singing, the dinner, the children, Nicholas, the walk, and the goodbye…the wonderful, wonderful goodbye…From beyond his door, he could hear the clock downstairs chiming the hour. Excited, perhaps more excited than he had ever been in his life, he shot out of bed, practically threw his clothes on, and rushed out of the house to the Mill. He was going to see Margaret later, it was a fact; the sooner he finished his work at the Mill, the sooner that meeting could take place.

That afternoon, John found himself waiting on the steps to Crampton, and for Margaret. He didn't really know what he expected out of this unexpected visit to the Hale's house, but it didn't really matter to him. All he wanted was to see the beautiful smile she gave him the night before while she stated her terms of forgiveness.

Dixon opened the door, and ushered him in the door.

"Hello, Dixon." He greeted pleasantly, handing her his coat and hat. "I trust you're doing well to-" But a loud crash from upstairs cut him off. The crash was followed by the sound of raised voices. He looked over to Dixon, and asked if everything was well in the household.

"I don't rightly know, Mr. Thornton." She replied. "It seemed fine when I left to answer the door. Frowning, John headed up the staircase, following the raised voices. He stopped outside Mr. Hale's study and listened.

"I cannot allow this to stand a second time, Miss Hale. I will not see you disgrace him any further!" John knew that voice. He knew it well. Dread began to settle in his stomach. There was only one person his mother would speaking to in that manner…

"I _disgraced_ him!?" He had been right.

"Yes, you disgraced him, Miss Hale! And you continue to disgrace him. Three times now, you have entangled my son in your immoral, irresponsible lifestyle. Three! I have already spoken to you on this matter once before, and I believe you know how I feel about the subject."

"Then why are you here!?" John winced at the tone of Margaret's voice. There was a long pause before his mother continued, and even then it her voice was so much lower that he actually had to lean into the door to hear her at all.

"To tell you that no matter how much you may regret your hasty rejection of his proposal, no matter what immoral schemes you come up with to entrap him, you will not have my son. He did his duty by you the first time and you scorned him. He owes you nothing now, despite the rumors you have no doubt created, and circulated on your own."

There was silence for a moment, before:

"You have insulted me quite enough today, Mrs. Thornton. I must ask you to leave."

"No, Miss Hale, I think you will not be rid of me as easily as the last time. This time you must hear all that I have to say to you."

"I must do nothing, except that which I wish to do! You have no authority over me madam, save the respect which is demanded by you being my elder, and by God Himself."

"I have the authority of your mother, though she is long deceased."

Suddenly the door opened, although it was not the way that John expected. Mr. Hale, and Mr. Bell had (so it seemed) been standing with him outside the door the entire time, even though he never noticed their presence, because it was his friend who opened the door and interrupted the conversation happening between Margaret and his mother.

"Margaret, what is going on here?" Mr. Hale said. John, who pressed himself flush against the wall when he opened the door, could not see their faces. He wasn't sure he wanted his mother to know of his presence at the moment.

"Mrs. Thornton is under the impression that I concocted some under-handed scheme to entrap her son in marriage." John choked, and tried to cough as quietly as possible.

"What gives you this idea, madam?"

"I overheard my servants discussing the tale, which they had heard in the marketplace this morning." his mother replied.

"What was the tale?" Mr. Hale asked. John held his breath.

"That they were seen walking last night after dark, and that they seemed to be 'quite intimate' with each other." Someone spluttered

"Nonsense!" He heard Mr. Bell say.

"Margaret?" Mr. Hale asked. John didn't give her a chance to respond, walking purposefully in to the room and saying:

"Yes, it is true, I did escort your daughter home last night." Three shocked faces and one apologetic smile greeted him. Mr. Hale looked at him enquiringly, Margaret…he couldn't tell what emotion her face was relying, and his mother looked at him with fire in her eyes as though challenging him to go against her. "I could not allow her home so late on her own Mr. Hale. Whatever-_intimacy_- occurred, I take full and complete responsibility for." He could feel Margaret's gaze burning into the side of his face, but he determinedly looked at her father. Mr. Hale looked at him for several long moments before he sighed.

"Will you all please excuse us, I would like a word with John alone." John, still avoiding Margaret's gaze, looked directly at his mother as she made to exit the room.

"I will see you at home, Mother; Do not wait up." He tone brooked no argument, and she nodded nearly imperceptibly at him before swiftly making her way from the room. He looked down at his hands after she left, if nothing else than to avoid Margaret's searing gaze. Soon, the room was emptied and the door was closed, leaving only Mr. Hale and himself.

"Have a seat John." He said, taking one himself and gesturing to the chair beside it. "And tell me about last night."

A/N: so FINALLY IT'S DONE! I just couldn't get this one out… good grief. Anyways, school started yesterday, but I don't think it'll be as bad as last semester….please tell me what you think.

Also, almost 100 reviews! Maybe I'll give some kind of gift to the 100th reviewer. ;)

I love you guys.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Ok, wow….Sorry about last chapter. It was completely terrible. Well grammatically speaking, that is…I went back and fixed the errors. I'm sorry you had to read it that way. My brain has already switched to school-mode, so there's no telling what I was thinking when I uploaded it without going back over it for errors….anyways. Thank you for all the encouragement when it comes to both this story, and also to my education. I really appreciate it, more than you even realize haha. I didn't really have time to respond to your reviews individually, through PM's like I usually try to do, so I'm just going to do it here after the chapter.

And I promise this chapter will be longer than the last two have been. I've been averaging between 5000 and 5500 words a chapter, and my last two were less than three…It will stop…well, I hope it will stop. Some days I'm just glad to be able to get anything written. Busy, Busy, Busy….

Congratulations to Tiffany, the 100th reviewer! =D You are simply amazing.

****Update 1.24.13** I re-posted this. I noticed a super huge error in it, so if anyone got a second notification email, I'm sorry for clogging your inbox.**

Chapter Nine

Margaret left the room in somewhat of a haze. She couldn't believe how angry she was. She'd never felt anything equal to it. Her hands were shaking, her face was hot, and she felt an almost overwhelming desire to destroy something…She walked briskly to the drawing room without bidding Mrs. Thornton goodbye, and slammed the door behind her. She winced slightly at her own obvious lack of control with her own temper, but quickly shook her head in an attempt to rid herself of such thoughts. Thinking about how upset she was, was only making her angrier. She was having a difficult enough time going through her emotions on an average day without contributing anything extra.

_The nerve of that woman!_ Margaret thought savagely. It was quite unlike her to think so viciously of someone, but she was quite beside herself in her anger. It was blindingly obvious what Mrs. Thornton's true opinion of her was; she made no attempts to hide her disapproval in the past, and Margaret supposed it only made sense that she would do the same this time. This time was different, however. This time, Margaret actually _had _done what she'd been accused of. Well, very nearly at least. She had been walking out so late with Mr. Thornton, and while it was not her desire to…._entrap_ him in marriage, she could not deny that something had shifted between them.

_But wasn't that what I was trying to accomplish?_ she thought. For months she had tried, failed, tried again, and failed again, to change something, _anything_ between them. Even just holding a conversation him. Or getting him to look at her with something other than disdain written on his face. Which she had eventually managed, although she didn't really think it was due solely to her own merits. A situation, such as they found themselves in the night before, would never, probably _ever_ have arisen between them by any design of Margaret's. Somehow, the presence of Nicholas Higgins seemed to have acted as some sort of balm on their wounded prides. While she did not regret the previous evening, she certainly had not intended on having such a…relaxed moment with Mr. Thornton.

A blush stole over her face as she thought about the way he spoke her name…partly in embarrassment at her own audacity to allow him such a liberty, and partly because of the fact that he had actually _done _it. His eyes staring intently at her own, his lips practically burning a hole through her hand. She rubbed the tingling spot on the back of her hand absently, and tried not to think about it anymore. She needed to focus on what had just happened. So Margaret did the only thing that seemed to offer her any peace of mind when she was troubled: pacing. She walked and walked, and walked. While she walked, she gathered her thoughts and tried to cool her anger at Mrs. Thornton down. However justified she might be in it. She knew her father would want to speak to her about it at some point, and she wanted to have a clear mind when that moment came. She tried desperately not to think about Mr. Thornton being just a room away from her, speaking with her father about the events that had just transpired. What would they be talking about? What must her father think of her? Margaret felt the first pangs of uneasiness at the thought. What _did_ her father think of her? Did he see her as a fallen woman, disgraced and dishonored? She had to admit, if a man suddenly burst into a room and acknowledged that he had indeed been on a very late and intimate walk with a young lady, _especially_ to the young lady's father, she would be inclined to think less of her, and the two would most likely be forced to marry-

Her heart stopped beating.

Surely not?

But the more she thought about it, the clearer the possibility became. Would she truly be forced to marry Mr. Thornton? Surely her father would not actually force her into marriage? While she knew that, out of every man she could have gotten into such a mess with, she was relieved, grateful even, that it was _him _as opposed to someone like Henry Lennox. At least it was someone she respected.

Unfortunately it was someone that did not necessarily harbor any positive feelings towards her. The previous night, their impromptu meeting, and shoddily patched up relationship was absolutely not a strong enough foundation for a marriage. It was barely a strong enough foundation for a _friendship_! It certainly wasn't enough for her to believe that he would look kindly on being forced into a marriage with a woman that had rejected him, lied to him, scorned him, and completely disgraced him in less than a twelve-month time period.

Perhaps Mrs. Thornton wasn't completely in the wrong.

She sighed, and headed for the door. Perhaps she would go for a walk, and let the fresh air rejuvenate her already weary mind. As she left the room she could hear voices coming from her father's study, one belonging to her father, the other to Mr. Thornton. She quickened her pace, and tried desperately not to hear anything that was being spoken behind the door. She even tried humming quietly to herself, and simultaneously thinking as loudly as possible. Try as she might, eight small words slipped through and penetrated her mind.

"_Why are you so against marrying my daughter?"_

* * *

John sat across from Mr. Hale, looking at his hands nervously. It wasn't that he was anxious about how Mr. Hale would react to what had happened between Margaret and himself (however small and inconsequential it might have been), but more that he feared he would lose the respect of the one true friend he had known. He had listened quietly to John's story, never interrupting him, never changing expression. Merely silent and observing. The only noise he heard from Mr. Hale was the long sigh after John had finished speaking. So here he sat, looking at his hands that were resting in his lab, twisting his fingers together in his anxiety. Finally, after an eternity of silence, Mr. Hale spoke:

"How long?"

"I'm sorry?" John asked, not really understand what Mr. Hale was referring to.

"How long have you cared for my daughter?" He replied slowly. John took a deep breath.

"I do not know, exactly." he said slowly, weighing his words. "It was long before the riots that I realized…" he trailed off uncertainly.

"Does my daughter care for you?" John's throat tightened uncomfortably. He wasn't immediately sure how to respond, as he had been asking himself that very same question for several hours. _Did Margaret care for him? _If he based his answer off of everything that had occurred between them the night before, he would be inclined to think that she at least held some small regard for him. However he knew from all of his previous encounters with her that she did not care for him in the slightest, something that he had once been dreadfully mistaken about. Then again, he himself had acted quite horribly to her the past months nearly every time they had met. Consequently, he couldn't accurately gauge her demeanor on any of those occasions, which had always been silent and seemed uncomfortable. It had been something he attributed to a guilty consciousness over that abominable lie about the man at the train station. John's heart sank as he tried a few times to make an audible reply.

"No, I do not believe she does." he said very quietly. Mr. Hale said nothing, and John couldn't bring himself to meet his eyes.

"Well," his friend began, sounding weary. "At least I can take comfort in the knowledge that while my daughter may not be herself in love, that she is and will _be _loved in marriage." John's head shot up as he looked at Mr. Hale, alarm written plainly on his face.

"Mr. Hale-" but he was silenced by Mr. Hale's hand.

"John please, you are clever enough to understand the situation. I have no choice. This obviously isn't what I wanted to happen to Margaret, but I know you. You are an honorable man, and it is clear to me you love my daughter. I can only sit back and thank God that it is you, and not some other man, of whose character I could not rely on." John stared at him with his mouth open.

"You cannot make her do this, Mr. Hale." he pleaded.

"What do you mean?" Mr. Hale replied.

"You cannot force her to marry me." his voice cracked a little, and he cursed his inability to keep his emotions in check. Mr. Hale looked at him, astonished. "It would destroy her. I will not take her away from the one person she has left in this world. I will not condemn her to a life unsatisfied. I could not bear it." _I could not bear to see her look at me contempt for the rest of her days, _he added mentally.

"I have no choice, John!" Mr. Hale replied, looking wearier than ever.

"My mother had no right to come here and confront Margaret as she did. It was extremely out of character for her, and I'm certain that this entire situation has merely been exaggerated greatly." John replied irritably. "She was very upset, and not thinking clearly. While I have no doubt that she spoke the truth, and someone must have seen, the only thing that could be deemed inappropriate would be the lateness of the hour that we were out, and I believe I have explained my reasoning entirely."

"You have, and you were quite right." Mr. Hale rubbed his face despairingly. "I would not want her walking out so late at night alone. But I will not have her shunned from society, and the object of ridicule and scorn!"

"But she won't be shunned from society!" John said desperately. "I very much doubt everything is a serious as my mother made it out to be."

"Why are you so against marrying my daughter?" Mr. Hale asked him curiously, head tilted to the side. This conversation was not going in a direction he particularly wanted to re-visit. "Is it a matter of social status? Do you believe Margaret is beneath you?" John stood quite abruptly.

"_Beneath_ me?!" He said incredulously. "Do you think that, if your daughter cared for me, that if marrying me would bring her even a shred of happiness, I would hesitate for a moment in asking for her hand?"

"You presume to know my daughter's feelings upon this subject quite well." Mr. Hale's tone was calm and curious, but John heard nothing but an accusation.

"Well it isn't as though she left any room for me to doubt it!" He snapped. Immediately he regretted his words and winced. Now he would have no choice; he would have to tell Mr. Hale about his rejected proposal…something he didn't even care to _think_ about.

"What do you mean?" he asked. John sighed, and made an attempt to steer the conversation in another direction.

"Please, Mr. Hale, think about it. If you decide to that our marriage is the only option, the only way Margaret could go on with life peacefully, then I will do it. I do still have some shreds of honor left, and I would not shirk my duty to her. But I can tell you now, with _absolute clarity,_ that it would make her unhappy."

"You are a better man than you credit yourself to be, John." He looked up at Mr. Hale to try and read his expression, but he had his back turned to him. A few minutes passed and neither man spoke, or even made any sound apart from quiet breathing. A long last, Mr. Hale sighed once more and turned to face him, face unsure, but determined. It was an expression he had only ever seen on Margaret's face. "I will consent to what you have asked, even though I do not necessarily agree with it. I trust your judgment, and I have a great deal of respect for you." John looked down at his feet feeling a little ashamed, and not fully understanding why.

"Thank you," He said sincerely.

"I would have you know," Mr. Hale said quietly. "That I would consider it an honor if I were one day able to call you my son." John looked at Mr. Hale earnestly, his soul practically trembling with longing. He was so affected by this small, honest admission, that he couldn't find his voice. He swallowed thickly, nodded twice, and looked down at his feet again. There was nothing in the world he could've desired more than Margaret by his side, and this man, Richard Hale, as the father he dearly wished he still had. He forced himself to suppress the urge to change his mind, to go find Margaret and beg her, _again,_ to be his wife. It hadn't escaped his notice that this very situation was almost identical to the situation he unremittingly scorned Margaret for. The very incident that made him red with jealousy. The incident that blackened his soul, and poisoned his heart against her. The incident that made him hate and love her in equal parts because he could not have her. He had become the very person he despised. He had become the man who led a beautiful young woman into a somewhat compromising situation that tainted her respectability, and forced her to sacrifice any chance of happiness by binding herself to him forever. But he could not do that to her. He would be the better man. He would try to be the man Margaret deserved. He would do whatever right he could by her. Even if it meant he would lose the respect of others in the process. Then an unbidden thought rose within his mind, and sought to torture him with cold realization.

_What if the man at Outwood Station had done the very same thing?_

John forced himself to believe that he was making the right decision

* * *

Only two things occupied Margaret's mind at the moment: that her father wanted her to marry Mr. Thornton, and that Mr. Thornton didn't want to. She had rushed through the house out the front door as quickly as she could, not bothering to grab a shawl or tell anyone she was leaving. She barely even made out of the crowded streets before the tears started to fall, burning streaks onto her skin that was instantly frozen by the icy wind. The knowledge made her so unaccountably miserable. She had always assumed that Mr. Thornton no longer cared for her, a fact that always made her incredibly disheartened. But somewhere, in the small recesses of her mind, she had truly believed his passionate words when he proposed. The words that had given her just the tiniest hope that things would always work out between them, even if she didn't fully comprehend her own feelings (something that was a regular occurrence as of late), now tortured her.

"_I have never loved a woman before; I've always been too busy, and my thoughts have always been absorbed with other things. Now…Now I love, and will continue to love. Don't worry yourself though; there will not be much expression on my part."_

She supposed that she had always assumed that somewhere deep down, there was a small part of Mr. Thornton that did still care for her, even though she could not see it. He had told her she would never know of his affection; in fact, until that very moment, she had absolutely no knowledge that he was partial towards her in any way. Yet he loved her then. Enough to want to make her his wife…but not anymore. Now he was sitting in her fathers study, attempting to convince him _not_ to force them to marry. She could not really say that she found it surprising. She had after all humiliated him, rejected him, lied to him, and given him sufficient enough reason to believe she had some clandestine lover. She was however, exceedingly surprised at the burning tears on her face, the slight trembling she could feel in her entire body, and encompassing, suffocating, emptiness. She felt so completely miserable without really understanding why, and at the moment she didn't care to try and discover what that reason was. All she could think about was Mr. Thornton, and the way he spoke her name the night before. The way he'd bandaged her hand with such gentleness. The way his face glowed when he smiled, and his eyes glinted with joy. The way his laugh reverberated straight through her body, seemingly filling her entirely with the sound of his amusement. But more than anything she thought about the way his warm lips felt against the cold skin of her hand only the night before, and how it would most likely never happen again. Margaret was so wholly consumed by such thoughts, that she did not notice the leering and whispers that followed her as she walked. She did not see the contemptuous expressions, or the up-turned noses. She did not notice what the people of Milton were saying about her. She didn't even notice the freezing night air as the sun dipped lower towards the horizon, or the fact that her entire body was shivering. She slowly made her way back home, as silent and grave as death itself.

By the time she reached the road to Crampton, darkness was quickly approaching, and the condemning looks and whispers still followed her. Margaret paid no notice. She stoically climbed the few stairs to her home and opened the door. Seemingly in a trance, she ignored the startled exclamations of whomever had seen her, proceeded directly to her room, and closed the door quietly behind her.

She did not notice Mr. Thornton on the staircase as she passed him.

* * *

Things did not improve.

Only a week had passed since his mother had been to see Margaret, and John had never known so much to change in so little time. The first few days afterward, the streets had been filled with gossip. People giving him unusual looks, whispering behind their hands to one another, failing miserably at attempting to discreetly point him out to another person. Under any normal circumstance, this would infuriated him beyond belief. While it was rather irritating, he bore it all with his head held high, comforting himself with the knowledge that he was keeping Margaret happy. Something he would gladly sacrifice anything to ensure.

His mother didn't make matters better. She spent nearly every free moment she had in his presence making rather indignant remarks on how deplorable Margaret's character was, how much better John was without her tainting his exemplary reputation, and exclaiming her pride at his being ability to avoid 'fortune-hunting harlots' as she had called her. It wasn't very long after said remark that John stood abruptly, and (quite alarmingly) forbade any person in the house to speak another word, cruel or otherwise, about Margaret Hale again, before stalking off to the Mills.

He had not been to the Hale house since that fateful day. He tried to reason that it would be unusual for him to be visiting so often if there was nothing happening between Margaret and himself, especially given all the tittle-tattle circulating Milton regarding them. It might look suspicious. But that wasn't entirely true. If he was honest with himself, he couldn't bear to see Margaret. It was hard enough being in this God-forsaken predicament with her, he didn't know that he could stand attempting civilities with her as well. He wanted to make himself believe that he was doing the right thing by her, that he was giving her a future where she would be happy. So he suppressed his desires and dreams, he shut them away in a box within is mind, and vowed it would never be opened again by anyone.

Unless that person per chance was Margaret.

"Master." Nicholas Higgins' stood in the doorway to his office, looking quite stern.

"Higgins." John replied, a little surprised. Although Nicholas was in all probability his only worker with the audacity to seek him out in his own office, it was very unlike him to do so. They usually only spoke outside of the Mill. "Come, in. What can I do for you?" He attempted to smile at his friend, but he wasn't so sure it came across how he hoped it had. Nicholas stepped in his office, closed the door, and faced him with his shoulders squared as though preparing for battle.

"I need to speak with you about something" he said. John tilted his head a little and looked at him curiously. He was silent for a few moments, as though contemplating what to say. "Surely you are aware there has been some talk in Milton about Margaret." John instantly straightened his posture at her name. "More specifically about Margaret and yourself." John stared at him in disbelief. Surely Nicholas Higgins wouldn't dare come to speak to him about-"How could you put her through this?"

"Higgins." John said, his tone dangerous.

"Do you have any idea what sort of hell she's being put through?"

"Higgins." He warned again, a little louder this time.

"You know what they're saying about her don't you?" John stood so abruptly that he pushed his desk forward a few inches. "What they're callin' her? Now I wouldn't have concerned myself in your business, Master if-"

"You shouldn't have concerned yourself at all!" John snapped, all semblance of patience gone. "It is my business, and mine alone. I do not want, nor do I need your opinion on my own decisions!"

"If it were just a few harmful names, I could easily stand back and keep to myself about it." Nicholas replied. "But it's more than that, Master, and I'll be damned if I just stand by idly and watch her suffer because your pride is too wounded to do the right thing!" John anger was greater than he had ever known it to be. Even in the face of the rioters he had not been this angry. His face paled, and his body trembled.

"All I have ever wanted is that woman's happiness! Everything I have ever done was done for her and her happiness! Don't you presume to know the reason behind my actions, Higgins!" Nicholas sighed and looked at him apologetically.

"Today, she was thrown out the grocers shop." he said solemnly. John looked over at him sharply. "Someone spread about that she was at the Station the night that Leonard's was killed. That she was responsible for his death, and that she threw herself at your mercy, and that out of respect for her father, you obliged. And now they believe that she's trying to trap you in marriage because they're destitute." John stared at him, mouth open in horror. "No one will sell anything to them, and all of her father's students have resigned."

"I-I" he stuttered. "I didn't know-when did this take place?"

"I only just found out from Mary." Nicholas replied. "Miss Margaret had come to visit…and to ask Mary to buy groceries on her behalf…I got the rest out of her eventually." John sighed loudly and rubbed a hand over face wearily. He was an idiot for thinking this could work.

God, how he hated himself sometimes.

He grabbed his jacket from the chair it rested on, and put it on as quickly as he could, fumbling a little with the buttons. "Thank you Nicholas." He said a little breathlessly.

"Where are you going?" He asked. John, who was already on the landing outside his office door, paused.

"To ask Margaret Hale to marry me."

A/N: Hopefully, not what you expected. I am really really really really really really really really SUPER REALLY looking forward to hearing your every thought about this chapter. I'm a little uncertain of it, but we're getting closer and closer to the big clincher =D I can not wait. I hope you like this.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

"Wait." John paused at the top of the stairs again, but did not turn around. "There's something else." John turned sharply towards Nicholas.

"What is it?" He asked, his voice quiet and his stomach filled with unease.

"Margaret is ill." John closed his eyes, but did not dare move. "You won't be able to see her." John turned abruptly on the spot, irritation seeping through in his voice.

"How do you know all this?" he snapped. He didn't have time to stand here and let Higgins clear his conscious. He had apologies to make and wrongs to right.

"I took her back to her father. She was at home with Mary when I got there." John shuffled back into the room, unceremoniously ripping his coat off and throwing it on his desk. "I've never seen her so out of sorts before, and I was afraid she wouldn't make it home on her own. Truth be told I'm not really sure how she made it out in the first place…"

"Then why did you bother telling me any of this tonight?" He yelled, having not heard Nicholas' last statement. "Surely you could've waited till tomorrow?" He threw himself back down in his chair and rubbed his face with both hands. Nicholas said nothing, but looked at him with that same curious expression about his face. There was nothing but silence in his office now. Silence and Nicholas' piercing gaze which John was trying desperately to avoid. Suddenly Nicholas stepped closer to him, and took a deep breath.

"I came here tonight," he said slowly and directly. "So you would have time to think, and to prepare." John stared at him incredulously. Time to think? He didn't need to think about it anymore; he'd done enough thinking about it to last him a year. He'd done plenty of thinking the last two times he was faced with marriage to Margaret Hale, and it had quite obviously done nothing good for him. He opened his mouth to say something back to him, but was cut off.

"I'll bid you good day, Master." Nicholas said quietly before disappearing through the door. John sat there staring at the empty space where Nicholas no longer stood, trying to understand what exactly was happening with his life. Before Margaret, everything was simple; he had an orderly and structured life, and had been happy. Now…now nothing made sense. He doubted himself constantly, he was absolutely, unutterably miserable, and he hated _everything_. He had never really hated anything before. He was turning into a bitter old man. A bitter old man that both loved and hated the woman he had been scorned by. He sighed before standing up and retrieving his coat once more. He might not be able to see Margaret, but he _needed_ to see her father.

* * *

"Hello, Dixon. Is Mr. Hale in?" John stood on the threshold to Crampton, looking into the exceptionally disapproving gaze of Dixon, and fiddling with his hat nervously.

"Yes, but he is very busy at the moment." she replied, voice practically dripping with disdain. "I will tell him you called."

"Please Dixon, I need to see him." John replied quietly. He knew he deserved Dixon's disapprobation, and he hated the desperation he cuold hear in his voice.

"I can assure you, he is quite preoccupied this evening tending to Miss Hale." John visibly flinched at her stabbing words, but did not back down.

"I have to make this right." he said quietly, not meeting her eyes. "Even if I have to force my way past you, I will see Mr. Hale, and fix this." He could not bring himself to look at her, but he could feel her hard stare on his face. She moved then, bustling away from the door without a word and John hesitated only for a moment to close the front door behind him, tossing his hat and coat on the side-table on his way to the stairs. The house itself was completely silent, something that was lately unheard of. At any given time, you could always depend on the sounds of Dixon bustling away somewhere, and Margaret pacing in the drawing room that was directly above where he now stood. The first time he heard the sound, he had felt so terrible knowing that he was the direct cause of something so distressing to her that she could not even keep still. Over time however he had selfishly come to love the sound, and it brought him an unusual sense of peace. He relished its dependability, betraying to the world that somewhere in the house, Margaret Hale was there, thoughts completely consumed by only God knew what. It was as though he was witnessing something private about her life…something intimate that not many people knew of. It made him feel secure. Now he was met with silence. Silence, and disapproval.

He came to a stop behind Dixon, who knocked softly on a door. Looking around he realized that they were outside of Margaret's room, somewhere he had only been on one other occasion. An occasion he didn't particularly want to think about. He was distracted from his own thoughts by the sound of coughing within the room. He swallowed thickly, attempting to suppress his growing anxiety. Nicholas had told him that Margaret was ill and unable to receive visitors, but he hadn't actually given very much thought to how ill she actually might have been. To him, the idea of Margaret being ill-at least too ill to leave her bed-was unfathomable. She was strong, courageous, completely independent. She looked into the face to trial and tribulation, and was not afraid. The very thought of an illness taking hold of her was almost laughable. And yet he heard the very proof of it with his own ears, and it was deeply unsettling. He pushed these troubling thoughts aside, knowing that a time would come for him to face them head-on soon enough. For this moment however, he needed a clear mind.

"John." Mr. Hale said quietly after closing the door to Margaret's room. He looked at John more intently than he ever had, and John knew exactly what thoughts were running through Mr. Hale's mind.

"I'm sorry I've come unannounced," He said, guilt creeping into his tone against his will. "But I must speak with you." Mr. Hale looked him squarely in the face, and nodded just once.

"Yes," he replied solemnly. "Yes, I believe you must. Come." They walked in silence back to Mr. Hale's study where, upon entering, Mr. Hale sat down heavily in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face wearily. John did not sit; he could not force his nerves down enough for him to remain that still. He settled for standing uncomfortably by the chair, fiddling with his hands behind his back. Mr. Hale looked at him expectantly, and was several minutes before John could bring himself to speak, guilt and nerves practically consuming him whole. When he finally could speak, his voice was quiet, shaky, and completely betraying his inner turmoil.

"H-how is Miss Hale?"

"I think you know how she is John, else you would not be here." Mr. Hale's tone was sharp and slightly accusatory, and it made him flinch ever so slightly.

"I'm sorry." He breathed, unable to speak any louder.

"What was that?" Mr. Hale asked. Whether he legitimately had not heard John speak, or was using this as some sort of retribution, he couldn't be sure.

"I-I was wrong," he tried once more, failing to keep the shaky breathlessness from his voice, but managing to speak a little louder than before. "I was wrong, and I'm sorry." Mr. Hale nodded slowly. "I have come, to-" he stuttered. "To set things right and, if you will allow it, to marry Miss Hale, and see this put behind her." Mr. Hale still looked at him piercingly.

"Why are you so certain that marriage would make things right? It seems to me that she is now past any point of redemption in the eyes of society." John had never hated anything more than he hated himself in this moment. Mr. Hale was right, in a way. There was no guarantee that Margaret would ever be accepted back in to society after this, even as his wife. Perhaps he was too late in this. Perhaps he had doomed Margaret to a life of solitude, and ostracism. So cast out from society that she could never marry anyone, never make new acquaintances, and would most likely soon be forced to take a position somewhere in Milton just to be able to eat. All because of him. So what was he to do now? Should he ask for her hand once more, knowing that he had backed her into this position and she would likely have no choice but to accept him, if for no other reason than to ease her father's troubled mind? Or should he leave her be to, as he said in his last conversation with Mr. Hale, live her life happily without the oppression of a forced marriage? Either way, things did not work out well for Margaret in regards to her happiness. But he could not, would not, stand by and watch her be persecuted in his name, and by his actions. He did not care what happened to his own reputation in the process, he _would_ make this right.

"I have no idea." He said, the shakiness in his voice gone, and his words etched with a determined firmness. "But I will not stand by and watch this happen to your daughter. I will give her a way out of this wretched darkness that has descended on your family by my actions and in my name, and if she does not accept me still, than I will know I have done right by you both." There was a long pause in which both men stared at each other, as though trying to read into the others' thoughts.

"You told me before that a marriage to you would destroy her." Mr. Hale said slowly. John nodded. "Do you still believe that?"

_What kind of question was that?_

John suddenly found himself inexplicably angry.

"I would not have said it if I did not believe it!" he snapped. Mr. Hale looked slightly taken aback at his abrupt change in demeanor. "Not that it matters what I believe," he continued, pacing back and forth in a somewhat distracted manner. He didn't notice the expression that Mr. Hale wore. In fact, he didn't notice anything, really. He had been suppressing this for so long; stuffing everything in a jar and forcing the lid shut over and over again. That jar was now so full that the small admission he had just let through was enough to blow the lid off completely, and let it's contents explode from within. "Everything I have done in regards to your daughter has only brought her hardship. I have no reason to believe that this could possibly bring her any joy. Peace, maybe; but not happiness. She has already made that quite clear to me. While I could never forgive myself for snatching away her happiness, I can _learn_ to live with it, _if _marriage to me would bring her peace." John stopped pacing, his body still turned away from Mr. Hale, and his chest heaving with his rapid breathing. He turned his head upon his last statement and looked sharply at his friend. "If she would accept this offer of her own free will, knowing that it is an offer of companionship and nothing more, knowing that I will expect nothing of her that she is not willing to give…then it might not destroy her. Until that day, I will bear the front of this burden for her as is my duty, and as I told you before, I will not shirk my duty towards her. " Mr. Hale looked at him in astonishment.

"Very well, John." He replied, his tone surprised and his expression still slightly bewildered. "I will speak to my daughter when she wakes, and I will tell her of your proposition."

"Thank you." John replied, his shoulders lifting as though a weight had been removed. He turned to his friend and held out his hand, which was quickly grasped by Mr. Hale.

"You owe me no thanks John," Mr. Hale spoke sincerely. "It is I who should be thanking you for being the honorable man you are." Mr. Hale opened his mouth again but paused, seemingly searching for the right words. "This is not the first offer of marriage you have made to my daughter, is it?" John sighed loudly.

Of course Mr. Hale would ask him _that_.

"No," he replied at long last. "No it is not."

* * *

"Margaret." A soft voice was calling her name. Over and over it called to her, but she could not answer it. She so tired.

"Margaret, my dear wake up." She recognized her father's voice through the haze of her mind, and forced her eyes open.

"Papa." She said, voice croaking from lack of use. Blearily she looking into the concerned face of her father, sitting at her bedside with a glass of water he was currently offering to her. She gratefully accepted it.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, placing the water on the side table and raising a hand to her forehead.

Horrible. "Fine." She replied. "I'm sure it's only a matter of time." He nodded slowly.

"Mr. Thornton came by earlier." Her father began conversationally. Margaret luckily did not have the energy to show her shock on her face, but she could not, no matter how she wished to, control the sudden racing of her heart.

"Oh?" She managed, although somewhat breathlessly. She had been doing everything in her power to _not_ think of Mr. Thornton, however fruitless an endeavor that might have been. Everywhere she went his name followed her on the whispers of those around her. "Has he come back to resume lessons with you?" She took a few deep breaths while she waited for his reply.

"No," he replied slowly. "He came, to offer you a place in his home." Margaret stared at him. "By his side. As his…wife…" Her father trailed off uncertainly, but held her gaze. Margaret's eyes were wide with shock and she could hardly breath. She was dreaming. She _must_ be dreaming. And why was her father telling her this? Shouldn't Mr. Thornton be asking her himself?

"What?!" She gasped.

"He is offering you a way out." Her father replied. "A way to put a stop to the terrible things that have been said of you. A chance to reestablish your character, and a chance at a life of stability."

"Stability!" Margaret cried. Out of everything that had been said, this made her the most angry. As if he was showing her exactly how much better he was than her, in wealth and position. It was extremely pompous.

"Well," he interjected quickly. "He never mentioned stability, but it's an implication nonetheless." Margaret continued to star at her father in a mild state of shock. "He specifically wanted you to know that he is offering companionship, and peace in your life. He says he will ask nothing of you, that you are not willing to give." Margaret's face reddened instantly at the unspoken implication of these words. Endearing as it was, she couldn't help but feel a little disheartened at the thought of companionship.

_What is wrong with you? _She thought angrily to herself. _You're dragging him along in your disgrace, forcing him into a marriage he does not want to be in, and yet you think of nothing but yourself!_ Looking back at her father determinedly, she said:

"Father I cannot marry him." To her very great surprise, her father smiled brightly at her.

"Oh," he said, chuckling slightly. "He was certain you would not accept. But I do not think you are declining for the reason he believes you will."

"What do you mean, papa?" Margaret asked, completely uncomprehending.

"Tell me my dear," he continued. "Why are you against this marriage?"

"I-I-" Margaret stuttered for a moment. "I could not bear the guilt of forcing someone to be tied to me for the rest of my life."

"But he is offering this to you freely. You certainly have not forced him into anything."

Margaret was inclined to disagree.

"I may not literally be forcing him into matrimony father, but it is because of me that he feels obligated to even offer." Her father raised his eyebrows at her clearly disagreeing with her. She sighed exasperatedly. "Do _you_ wish for me to marry Mr. Thornton, father?" she asked somewhat irritably.

"I want to be able to see you leave the house without having people leer at you." he replied wearily. Margaret looked down, guilt creeping up inside her. "I want your life to be returned to normal. But this is your decision to make; your choice. I will not force your hand either way. I support you completely, even if you choose not to marry him." Margaret was so touched by the way her father spoke to her, that she answered without thinking about the words that were tumbling out of her mouth.

"Very well father. I will marry Mr. Thornton."

* * *

The next morning found John standing at the door to Crampton once more, although this time with a somewhat nervous fluttering in his stomach. He told himself over and over again that it wouldn't matter if Margaret rejected him once more, that his conscious would be clear, and that it would be her decision to remain in this position in life. It was completely pointless however, as a small part of him traitorously longed for her to say yes. To be his wife.

To be Margaret Thornton.

Even if it was only because she was forced to. There was a part of him that feared her rejection. If she refused him this time, in light of everything that had happened to her, knowing he was her only way out, than there was truly no way for him to win her affections. Ever. He didn't know if he could recover from being turned down again. He did his best to suppress such thoughts as he was led into Mr. Hale's study once more, but found it to be difficult. In fact, he hardly heard a word Mr. Hale was saying to him.

"My daughter thanks you for the consideration of your proposal, and has informed me that would be honored to accept it."

Had he just heard that correctly?

"I-I'm sorry," He began. "Did you say-she accepted?" He looked disbelievingly at Mr. Hale, whose eyes were twinkling in a way John had never witnessed.

"Yes. And she entreated me to beg your forgiveness that she is not down here to thank you herself. She is still quite unwell." Mr. Hale's brow creased almost imperceptibly in concern, but the twinkling still remained. John, quite unable to speak at the moment, simply stared at him dumbfounded.

Eventually he was able to work past his initial (and somewhat guiltily obtained) euphoria, and set to planning the wedding details with Mr. Hale.

* * *

"You're what?!" John sighed. He had expected this reaction from his mother, but it did no make it any more pleasant to hear in person.

"I'm engaged to Miss Hale, and we will be married by the end of next week."

"Yes, I heard you the first time." she snapped. "But that's nine days from now!"

"Yes, I am aware."

"And you expect to be able to plan a wedding in nine days?" she asked him skeptically.

"Well it's hardly going to be the grandiose affair that Fanny's was."

"I cannot plan a wedding in nine days John."

"I wasn't asking you to, Mother." He replied stiffly.

"I think I will go visit Fanny for a week or two." She said, daring him to object.

"I think that would be best." He replied coolly. Things had been heated between them ever since his mother's outburst at Crampton.

"I cannot believe that _woman_," she spat contemptuously. "Is finally getting her way with you."

"Might I remind you," John replied, his voice lowering dangerously. "That I would not be marrying Miss Hale in nine days if it weren't for you-_informing_ Mr. Hale of our 'obscenely' relationship." His mother looked at him with incredulous fury, but said nothing. She knew he was right. Without a word, she turned away from him and walked briskly to her room before slamming the door shut behind her.

* * *

Nine days later a marriage took place between two people who had not intended on being married. Two people who were both hopelessly in love with the other, though neither was actually aware of it. Two people who were desperately hoping that the scandal surrounding their relationship would finally be put to rest. Two people who were hoping that against all odds, they might be able to call themselves friends one day, if nothing else.

Nine days later John Thornton married Margaret Hale, and begged God that this would be the end of the turbulence, and his life would finally find some peace.

But God did not answer his prayer.

For John Thornton, everything was just beginning.

* * *

A/N: No this is NOT the end of the story. Lol. I have a long way to go from here. This chapter obviously moved very quickly, but don't worry, I'm going over the gaps more in the next chappie. As always, I can't WAIT to hear what you think! =D Also, I'm kinda spare on ideas lately. Give me some? Maybe, please? =D I mean, I've got the plot made, but I would love love love LOVE some ideas ;)

I love you guys, btw. And again, sorry for any mishaps with my writing. I do try.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Three days. There were only three days left until he married Margaret Hale. He was fully aware that he'd never been quite as busy in his entire life. There was usual business at the Mill, and then there was wedding planning, and changes happening in his house that if he were honest, he didn't really understand, and then there was the additional work at the Mill that had to be done. Work that would enable him to spare two days away from the Mill so he could get married. He secretly hoped Margaret wouldn't be too disappointed at being unable to have a wedding trip. Then again, he hoped Margaret wouldn't be too disappointed at being faced with being in the position to take a wedding trip. To be honest he had no idea how Margaret felt about anything that had happened in the last week. He hadn't seen her since that fateful day his mother had been to visit her.

Thirteen days ago.

He had been to see her, of course, but only ever saw her father. She was, according to Mr. Hale, still quite ill, and was under strict orders from Dr. Donaldson to remain in bed as much as possible prior to the wedding. This was followed by a firm reassurance that no, her illness was not serious, and that she would in fact make a full recovery. Slowly but surely, he was told. It did nothing to make him feel any less guilty though. Or any less apprehensive. At the rate things were going, he wouldn't see her until the wedding itself.

* * *

"John, it's your wedding. You can't just use whatever dishes you like! These are the best we have!"  
"Fanny," He replied exhaustedly the next day. "The servants already have enough on their hands dealing with…everything they're dealing with. It makes no sense to also have them dig out the old china, and wash them all by Sunday!" Fanny placed her hands on her hips, looking sterner than he'd ever seen her.  
"Do you want my help or not, John?" she asked. "It's not as though I'm out ordering you brand new dishes for the occasion. You only marry once, she will only marry once. The least you can do for the poor woman is use some nicer dishes than your everyday ones!" John sighed.  
"Yes, you're right of course, Fanny. I'm sorry, I've just been…" He trailed off, not really sure what exactly he'd been the past few days. She came over to where he was sitting and placed a hand on his arm.  
"I understand John, I really do." She said softly. "A wedding on it's own is difficult enough. But a wedding that wasn't planned, in just over a week is…madness. I can't imagine myself where you are right now." She laughed slightly towards the end. John looked at her astounded. What happened to his sister? His younger, slightly haughty sister, who prided herself on her excellent connections. She was a woman now, loving and attentive. He searched her face, trying to understand what had changed, and found nothing but sincerity there.  
When his mother had left to go stay with the Watson's, Fanny had surprised him by coming over the very next morning, and visiting him in his office, something she had never done before. She claimed that their mother had told her everything, and that she would like to do anything she could to help with the wedding preparations. Initially (and quite understandably) he had been extremely apprehensive about it. Her own wedding had been extravagant, beautiful and a little….posh. He didn't have the time, or truthfully the money. But after the first few days of trying to balance everything on his own, he started to feel like a fish out of water. Weddings were generally taken care of by the bride's family. His bride however, was bedridden, and John had graciously offered to handle everything himself. He soon realized, he was completely out of his depth with this. So it was quite begrudgingly that he returned to Fanny a few days later, and asked if her offer still stood. Luckily for him, she was thrilled to help with the planning.  
"I mean," she continued. "It's not as though mother has been making things easier." John frowned. His mother had not spoken to him since she departed.  
"How is she?" he asked, genuinely concerned even though his tone was somewhat clipped.  
"Still brooding." Fanny said happily, whilst smiling brightly at him. "I believe she feels as though you are ruining yourself with this marriage, and that you'd be better off leaving Miss Hale to clean up her own mess."  
"Is that so?" He replied, not really caring at all.  
"I think that deep down, under her wounded pride that is, she is secretly bursting with pride that you would do this for Miss Hale despite what may happen to you, and that you're a man of such honor." John scoffed. "You are doing the right thing John." She said, looking at him so assuredly, he nearly believed it himself. "No matter what anyone says, you have done the right thing. Miss Hale is a lucky woman to be so looked after."  
"I was under the distinct impression that you did not particularly care for Miss Hale." John said, after a short pause. Fanny frowned slightly and looked away from him.  
"I…" she trailed off, weighing her words. "It is not every woman who would have the courage to face adversity, and still consider others before herself. And I respect her greatly for it, even though I do believe she is a little proud. It's not so bad though, we live in Milton. Everyone is proud."  
"What do you mean?" John asked. Fanny turned and caught his eye.  
"She must care something for you John. Even if it is only a friendship, it's a start."  
"Marriage has done you well, Fanny." John said incredulously. "I hardly know you right now!" Fanny looked away, but John could see blush creeping up her cheeks, and the pleased smile she was trying (and failing) to conceal.  
"Thank you John." She said, still smiling a little. "Now you get back to work, and leave these preparations to me. I'll see that everything gets done properly. You've got enough to deal with on your own." John smiled before leaning over and kissing his sister on the cheek.  
"Thank you Fanny. I do not think I could have done this without you." She beamed with pride at such a compliment from her brother.

* * *

"John, what are you doing?!"  
"Just trying to get the last of this compl-"  
"Have you lost your senses! Oh, you're not even properly dressed! Go, upstairs right now, there's not much time before we have to leave."  
"Fanny, we have plenty of time-"  
"Oh for God's sake John, look at the clock! You've got less than an hour until you have to be there!"  
"What? The wedding isn't for another two and a half hours!"  
"Just go!"

* * *

Everything was a flurry of movement, and flowers, and raised voices barking orders at someone else. John had absolutely no idea why it was so important for him to be an hour and a half early to his own wedding, but his sister was adamant. He had yet to see his mother, but he was sure she would come. Strife or no strife, she would not miss the marriage of her only son, he was certain of it. Before long there were guests arriving. He must have shaken hands with at least a hundred people before the hour was out. They offered him well wishes, and congratulations, smiling proudly at him each in their turn. But John hardly noticed any of them. He couldn't make his mind focus on anything but suppressing the unnervingly profound desire to vomit everywhere. He had never been this nervous. Ever. He was proud, confident, determined, and strong. He didn't get nervous. He was calculating, and knew how things would happen. And that gave him confidence. It made him strong. But in this moment, he knew nothing of what was going to happen in the course of the day. For that matter, he knew nothing of what would come in his foreseeable future. In every aspect. Which is why he was currently sitting in a back room of the church, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, breathing deeply and trying desperately not to be violently sick. He didn't have time to be sick. He was getting married. He glanced at his watch and felt the anxiety tear through his chest. Ten minutes. He rose, and made his way back towards his assigned position on the altar. And then, everything stopped. The noise, the chatter, his nerves, his thoughts, his very heartbeat.  
There she was, looking more beautiful and more solemn than he had ever seen her. There she was, on the arm of her father in the most beautiful dress he'd ever seen her in. There was muttering in the crowd, and a few pointed fingers. John didn't notice any of it. All he could see was Margaret, and Margaret was looking at him. Not the floor, or her hands, or her father, but him. And he was so completely lost in his love for her, that not a single person in the room doubted he had ever loved her at all.

Except of course, the bride.

* * *

Breathe she told herself. Just breathe. Margaret forced herself not to take too much stock in what Mr. Thornton was now saying to her. The way he was looking at her, his hand that held hers which was quivering ever so slightly, and those words. Words that spoke of love, and adoration. Words that spoke of endless devotion. Words that spoke volumes to Margaret, of forever. Forever she was his, forever she was his, forever she was his…

Forever he was hers.

The thought thrilled and terrified her in equal measure. She wasn't really even sure why. But there was something about the way he was looking at her that made her want to throw all caution to the wind, just for this day. But she couldn't, could she? She had trapped him in this situation. He didn't want to marry her. Not anymore. Not after all she'd done to him. And he was right not to. She didn't deserve him. He was a good man, and she was a broken woman. Yet here he was, holding her hands and looking into her eyes, and speaking words that weren't supposed to be true between them. Placing a ring on her finger, and promising her forever. There was something she had forgotten about. Something she hadn't even considered at all. Something she should have remembered before now. Something that was currently making it impossible for her to think, or even breathe properly. But before she even had a chance to think about it, his hand was ghosting over her cheek and his lips were on hers. Her body erupted in furious flames, and only one thought permeated her senses.  
Today was easily the best day of her life.

A/N: Short but…..I think it's pretty good. Just a little taste of what's to come. ;) God, I can't wait! It's far from over, kiddies, but not in the way you might think…

Also, please review. =D

ALSO, went back and fixed the stupid spelling errors, because I must have been on crack when I posted this with so many errors.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Sorry for the shortness of my last chapter. I felt it was best to just leave it that way, and just…well, breeze through it really. I'm sorry if I disappointed anyone with the…lack of details. But I promise, my writing didn't suddenly turn to crap, I wanted it that short. Trust me, its better that I elaborate in this chapter and not waste any more time on it. I'm sure you're ready to see things…heat up between them. For lack of a better term lol. Anyways, enough of me! On to the good stuff.

* * *

Chapter 12

To say things were awkward would be an understatement. It was quite conceivable that no one had ever felt as awkward and uncomfortable as he did in all of history. It wasn't the fact that he had to stand in front dozens of people, some that he knew, some that he didn't. It wasn't the fact that he had just married a woman that he was passionately in love with and whom, quite ironically, despised him with equal passion. It wasn't even the fact that he seemed to have lost his mind for a short while back at the altar where he had kissed Margaret with a fire he never knew he possessed. No, what made things awkward was that he had kissed her again.

And again.

And then once more for good measure.

It had made the guests so uncomfortable that someone actually cleared their throat rather loudly in the middle of his third kiss. To which he replied with a small secret smile and just one more kiss. Then he realized what he had done, and felt the weight of the possible consequences of his ridiculous actions. As he pulled away and straightened, he noticed the flush on her face, the red of her lips where his had just been, and the blueness of her eyes, which had never been quite as vibrant as they were in that moment. Those eyes that looked at him incredulously, questioning his actions. He could give her no answers, for he knew none himself.

The awkwardness hadn't completely settled in until they reached the carriage that would take them from the church, to the Watson's home, where the reception was being held. Never before had ten minutes ever passed so slowly. So he sat there across from her, wondering if perhaps he just might have gone a little too far. But she had _such_ a way of making him…lose himself. His senses, his rationality, his manners, his logic, completely gone, flown right out the window and never seen again. John looked at her, half begging that she would meet his gaze, half terrified that she would. For now she was absorbed by her hands. Specifically, he noted with a slight thrill, the wedding band that now rested on her left hand. She was twisting it around and around her finger, determinedly not looking anywhere else. He wanted to say something to lighten the tension, but could think of nothing. It was as though words had temporarily vacated to a part of his mind he could not access. Several times he would look down thinking, have a thought and raise his head to say something, mouth open and breath in his lungs ready for speech. But when the time came for him to _actually speak_, it was gone, and he was left looking at her with the most bizarre expression on his face. And so it was that by the time they did finally reach his sister's home, they had not spoken a single word to each other. They would have to speak eventually though, seeing as how they were now married…

He stepped out of the carriage once it had stopped, and turned to help Margaret out as well. She was still playing with her ring, seemingly oblivious that anything had changed at all. He waited for a moment before thrusting his hand a little closer to her. Still unsure about speaking, he cleared his throat. Nothing. Not even a twitch. He took a deep breath.

"Margaret." Her head shot up faster than he would have believed possible for any person. As her eyes met his, her face immediately reddened, and she looked down once more.

"I-I-I'm sorry, Mr. Thornton." she stammered quickly, taking his hand and hurrying out of the carriage. "I was just distracted, it's been a rather-rather eventful day.." she trailed off as she attempted to straighten her dress, which had become rather rumpled during the bumpy carriage ride.

"Think nothing of it," he replied, smiling a little at her attempt to appear tidy. Then, feeling unusually emboldened by the lovely blush still lingering on her cheeks he added: "I will forgive on one condition." Margaret's hands stilled in the process of smoothing out her skirt and she looked up at him, blush perhaps deepening a little, one eyebrow raised in silent contemplation. She looked down, and forcibly resumed her activity.

"Oh?" she asked, still focusing on her skirt. She sounded a little…breathless, he thought. He suddenly felt giddy. He noticed then that her veil looked a little lopsided, and her hairpiece was a little off-center.

"Yes," John replied, taking a tentative step towards her, eliminating nearly all of the space between them. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he couldn't believe what he was about to do. _What am I doing?!_ He thought wildly. The one small part of his mind that was still desperately clinging to sanity urged him to stop, telling him that this was a public location, that this would do nothing to soothe his poor aching heart. But the sound of her breath hitching as he hovered so close to her urged him forward. He leaned forward and reached for the rumpled veil. Lifting it off her hair he shook it out a little, and placed it gently back in it's proper location. "Don't ever call me Mr. Thornton again." He said, repeating her former request back to her. He was still leaning slightly over her. Being so much taller than her, the top of her head only came to his shoulders. John remained frozen in place, his arms still on either side of her head, now adjusting her hairpiece.

"Take it off." Margaret said, her voice somewhat muffled by his own torso. His hands stilled. Had he…heard that properly?

"I'm sorry?" He asked, heart hammering wildly in his chest. Being so _close_ to her was driving him mad. He could barely focus on anything but the alluring scent of her hair right below him.

"My veil." she replied in a breathless whisper. He still hadn't moved, and had no idea what her expression would tell him even if he were looking at her face. "Will you take it off? I don't-I don't think I need it anymore." He nodded, while picking up the veil once more, before suddenly remembering that she couldn't see his face. Unfortunately he couldn't seem to make proper words so he said nothing, but straightened himself and placed the veil carefully on his seat in the carriage.

"Thank you…John." She was looking at him in that _way_. The way that he didn't quite understand and that made his heart thunder.

"You're welcome." God, how he wanted to kiss her again. He could feel it building up inside of him, pushing him forward.

But in the very next moment they were ushered inside by Fanny before anything could be done about it.

* * *

Although this hardly qualified as the most tedious experience she'd ever been through, Margaret couldn't deny that she was unaccountably _bored_. It was a puzzling thing, considering this was _her _wedding. She couldn't actually tell if she was bored because the reception was boring, or if it was because she was so exhausted that it made everything around her seem dull. She had been ill, very ill, and wasn't completely recovered from it yet. Despite her best efforts, she had been forced to remain in bed for over a week, in order to allow herself to "completely heal" as Dr. Donaldson had put it. It had driven her insane, however necessary it might have been. The downside of this was something Margaret was becoming increasingly aware of: she'd been resting so much that she didn't have the energy to get through her own wedding. She was trying, _really trying_ not to actually show how exhausted she truly was. It was a little embarrassing for her to admit that she couldn't just push through it.

Margaret hated being ill. It didn't happen very often, but when it did it was truly horrible. It took her weeks to fully recover, and she was always confined to her bed until she was. She never understood the reasoning for it. Well, until now anyway. Her head felt compressed, and her body felt flushed. But she refused to give in to this ridiculous weakness. This was her wedding day, she was meant to enjoy it, and she fully intended on doing so. No matter how unplanned and last minute it had come about. Her thoughts drifted of their own accord to the man who had consistently occupied most of them. He was sitting across from her at the table, deep in conversation with Dr. Donaldson on his right. He delicately fingered the rim of his wine glass with one hand, his other resting on the table with his index finger silently tapping one of his spoons. He was such a confusing man. The last time she had seen him was the day his mother-now her mother by marriage-had been to call on her. The day he had begged her father not to force them into marriage. Yet here they were. Married. She didn't really understand it.

In truth there were many things that she did not understand. There was Mr. Thornton, who had adamantly protested marriage to her, only to come back a week later offering her marriage. Did he feel guilty for the rapid decline in her reputation and ask only out of some misguided sense of duty? Was it her father who came to him, and insisted upon them marrying? Was he doing it simply to spite his mother? Most importantly however, she desperately wondered why it was that he had not asked her himself. A part of her was a little…hurt that he wouldn't face her on his own to ask for her hand. And another part of her was angry, so _incredibly_ angry at him. Sending her father to ask her on his behalf. As though he just assumed that she would say yes! It wasn't even worth his time to go ask her on his own? She was a ruined woman, of course she would say yes. But she was ruined by his own mother, by his very name, and she carried that burden on her own. Why couldn't he face her? Was he so disgusted by the thought of marrying her, of being stuck with her for the rest of his-or her-life that he would not even ask her? But there were moments-wonderful and beautiful moments- where Margaret thought that he might still…care for her. Moments like the walk from Nicholas Higgins house. Moments like that kiss…

Her stomach churned into a pit of nerves just thinking about it, and her face flushed a little warmer than it already was. A kiss that made Margaret feel more than she ever had in one single moment. But then he had kissed her again a little harder this time, and then his hands were holding her face and he kissed her again. He leaned in once more, but paused for a millisecond before softly, sweetly kissing her one last time. She was jolted out of her thoughts by a touch on her shoulder.

"Would you like to dance with me?" Mr. Thornton asked her. She blushed and tried desperately to suppress the butterflies in her stomach to no avail. Feeling overwhelmingly nervous, she managed to take his proffered arm and let him lead her away. The closer she was to him, the heavier the compression on her head became. She breathed deeply, but nothing was helping. His hands were burning her every time they touched, and her heart was racing. But above all of this, she was acutely aware of everything about him. The way he smelled, how incredibly graceful he was (why hadn't she ever noticed?), the somewhat mischievous glint in that was twinkling away in his eyes…there were so many things she'd never taken the time to notice about him…

"Are you well, Margaret?" He asked her, brows creased. "Your face is flushed." Margaret felt herself grow hotter at his words. He _would_ notice that. She was extremely glad that he didn't know precisely _what_ she had been thinking about.

"I _am_ well," she replied, not looking him in the eye. Truthfully she was feeling worse with each passing minute, but she didn't want anyone to know that. She would be fine, she was well enough to make it through the rest of this day, and she _would_ make it through the rest of this day. Her husband she discovered, was not quite so easily fooled, and pulled her to a quiet area of the room.

"You've been ill, Margaret." He said sternly. "You ought to rest." Margaret, despite her best efforts, felt her temper flare immediately as he placed a hand on her forehead, but she forced herself to suppress it. "You're burning up!" He exclaimed, looking at her intently. "Let me take you home."

"No, I'm fine." she said. "There's no need to inconvenience everyone else by leaving early." He frowned at her.

"We're leaving." He said firmly. Margaret looked at him incredulously but had no time to argue the point because he grabbed her arm and gently, but firmly steered her right to her father.

* * *

John had seen her complexion grow increasingly pale and flushed over the course of the afternoon. Then Dr. Donaldson had spoken with him at dinner about it. An extremely persistent cold he had said. Nothing to worry about long-term, so long as he made sure she got plenty of rest, along with light foods and small amounts of exercise. He had looked very pointedly at John at the mention of exercise and he felt his face flush hotly in embarrassment before clearing his throat loudly, and excusing himself to go offer Margaret a dance. He'd never danced with her before, and while admired how incredibly graceful and fluid her movements were, he could not fail to notice the somewhat glazed expression in her eyes, and the furious flush on her cheeks. When he'd asked how she was feeling, he wasn't expecting to see the familiar flash of defiance across her face. He certainly wasn't expecting her to refuse to leave either. But it didn't matter. Margaret was one of the most stubborn people walking the Earth, and if he had to drag her home and lock her in her room until she was better, he would do it. He would make her get well. It was the least he could do after all, seeing as how he was the cause of her sickness in the first place. So he did what any sensible man would do when faced with his current predicament: he drug her off to her father and announced that they were leaving. John immediately knew without looking at her that she was furious with him.

As could only be expected, she was angry with him, and did not speak to him the entire trip back to the Marlborough Mills. He tried not to let it bother him too much; after all, they had not spoken a single word to each other the entire trip to their wedding reception. But he knew he had done the right thing. It didn't make it any easier to be staunchly ignored by his bride on their wedding day, but he could easily tell himself that it wasn't a catastrophe.

Upon arriving at the house, he stepped out of the carriage and offered her his hand, which she pointedly refused as though she were trying to prove to him that she was well enough to get out on her own. Unfortunately for Margaret, she wasn't as well as she thought she was. She lost her balance as she stepped down from the carriage and was forced to grab onto John's arm to steady herself.

"Thank you." She said quietly, as he helped her up the stairs and into the house.

"You owe me no thanks, Margaret." John reminded her. He glanced sideways at her, and noticed the slight frown on her face. He didn't really know what to make of it, and try as he might, he could not settle on a definite answer. Once inside the house, he placed his gloves, hat, and her discarded veil on the table in the entryway. Normally there would have been a member of staff present to take such items from him, but he had insisted the take the night off. They had done enough for him in this past week, and wanted to repay them in whatever way he could. He turned and offered to take Margaret's shall. "You're angry with me." He said, taking the soft material from her and placing it with their other belongings. It wasn't posed as a question. It was a fact; he knew Margaret would be angry with him. She did not reply, but he could see it on her face.

* * *

She _was_ angry at him. Margaret didn't want to be angry at him; not truly. She should be begging for his forgiveness while thanking endlessly for the sacrifice he was making by marrying her. Instead she was, for the most part, ignoring him. Well, she wasn't actually ignoring him. No, she was _very_ aware of every movement he made, every facial expression he made, and every word he spoke. But she knew if she spoke now, her temper would surely get the better of her, and she would say things she _really _didn't mean. Everything that had been building up between them over the past two years had reached a point where they could not just move past it, suppress it _again_, and pretend as though nothing had happened. No matter which way they went from here, Margaret knew that soon, perhaps sooner than she wanted, she would be confronted by the choices she had made and the words she had spoke. He would, undoubtedly want answers from her, that she did not know if she could give. The thought of it terrified her more than she thought possible. Margaret had been sure that his opinion of her couldn't be any lower than it already was. That is to say, she had been sure of it until he had _married_ her. Months she had been agonizing over the loss of his respect, and good opinion. For months, all she wanted was the chance to sit down and explain everything to him. Frederick, the riot, everything. Now she had an infinite number of opportunities to do so, but seriously doubted that it would change anything. They had been stuck like this for so long, was it even possible that anything _could_ change it? Then there was the nagging little thought in the back of her mind. The one that had been plaguing her ever since she overheard him speaking to her father. _Would he even want to?_

Margaret was beginning to doubt it, although she could not bring herself to place blame on him for it. She deserved his disapprobation, his scorn. She deserved to be in this horribly ironic situation that would mock her every day for the rest of her life. This was probably nothing compared to the way he had been treated by her. And she would bear this burden, just as she had born the others: silent, and without complaint. God had given her a way out of the horrible mess she had gotten herself into. He had given her Mr. Thornton, a man with more patience and kindness than any other in existence. And Mr. Thornton had married her, no matter how much he didn't want to. So she would do what she could to be what he wanted her to be, to be what he needed her to be. Because as much as she knew she would be losing a part of her self along the way, she also knew that she owed more to him than she could ever repay.

Margaret knew that one day, she would want more. She would want him to understand her, and her actions. She knew that there were times she would lose her temper, times where she would forget her solemn pledge. Times where she would say things she would later regret. Times where she would want to pull her hair out in frustration over him. But she knew that she could do it, do this for him.

Because Margaret finally understood that she was hopelessly and madly in love with John Thornton.

* * *

John stood there watching Margaret waiting for some form of response, but none came. She stood there fixated on the table where he had lain there possessions, her expression unfathomable. Now that they were alone he had to admit, he was a little nervous about it. He had hoped that, despite how it had come about, Margaret might not be terribly disheartened at their marriage. He wasn't her favorite person, but that had a…friendship at least. In a way. And she had made a sacrifice that ensured her father's continued prosperity. He had hoped that it would at least bring her some peace with the situation. Now he thought she looked more disappointed than he had ever seen her, and it nearly broke him.

"Will you not speak to me?" He asked her quietly, heart thrumming madly with anxiety. He waited with bated breath, almost dreading her reply. None came. He had never felt so vulnerable in his life. All he wanted was her to look his way, maybe smile, maybe just say something, _anything _that would reassure him that he had made the right decision. That he wasn't really trapping her in a loveless marriage, that she didn't despise him for all she had been through in his name, that even if her heart did belong to another man, they could live in Harmony with one another. He wanted to know that this had been worth it to her. That sacrificing her independence (even though he would never truly ask her to), and spending every day of the rest of her life with _him_ had been worth it. John desperately _wanted _to believe that it had been worth it, but even he didn't completely believe it. For him, any amount of trial and scorn was worth it so long as it brought Margaret happiness. He lived and breathed for her happiness. But he had done this. Ruined her reputation, seen her shunned, scorned, and hated, and then married her hoping and praying that he could restore her respectability. It wouldn't though, and he knew it. Even his reputation wasn't good enough to bring Margaret out of this. He had always known that. Even when he went back and begged her father to let him marry her. He tried to make himself believe that he was doing it for her, but it wasn't true. He knew Margaret could not refuse him. Not when she had no future she could depend on. He had knowingly tied her to him for her entire life, for his own selfish reasons. Perhaps he hadn't known it at the time, but he certainly knew it now, and he hated himself for it.

Even through the tumult of his mind, there was still enough pride in him to be affronted at Margaret's behavior. Angry with him or not, why was she blatantly ignoring him? It was hurtful. And his pain surfaced in the way it always had: defensive anger.

"Am I truly so repulsive to you that you will not even speak to me, or do believe yourself to be so much better than I, and need not trouble yourself with a response?" His tone was harsh and bitter, more so than he thought it would be. It did however, get Margaret's attention. Her head snapped up, and her eyes met his incredulously.

"I'm sorry?" She asked in amazement. He should stop, right now, when he was still ahead of himself. But he wanted to continue, he had questions and he wanted answers.

"Do you have any idea how frustrating you can be?" His tone was growing louder.

"How frustrating _I_ can be?!" Margaret exclaimed, the fire back in her eyes once more. "Have you examined yourself recently?"

"At least I do you the courtesy of acknowledging you when you speak."

"Oh you do, do you?" she asked him skeptically. "Well I thank you sir, for being kind enough to recognize my existence. As to the wrong you claim I have done you, I am greatly sorry, even though I have no idea to what you are referring. However," she took a step towards him, eyes blazing. "Do not _assume_ you know or understand my thoughts or feelings about you, and do not persecute me based on that inaccurate assumption! I understand you must be upset with this situation as well, but I do not feel I should be subjected to cruelty because of it." John felt as though his heart was suddenly in his throat. So this was it; they were here already, and his worst fears had just been confirmed.

"If you're so upset by this situation, then why did you marry me!?" He was nearly shouting now, heart racing and temper wildly out of control to mask the hurt he was feeling. "No one forced you into this, Margaret!" Her face went pale, and she stared at him open-mouthed.

"Why did you ask me to in the first place?" John choked, not expecting such a rebuff.

"You're avoiding the question, Margaret." he said, quickly recovering.

"I'm very well aware that I was not forced into this." she replied, her tone icy. "You do not need to remind me that I made the decision to be your wife."

"Then perhaps you need to learn to accept the consequences of your actions." He spat. The words had barely left his mouth before he regretted speaking them. Unfortunately he didn't have time to make an apology before Margaret's hand connected with his face and sent him staggering back a step. He looked at her astonished. Her eyes, vibrantly blue once again, sparkled with unshed tears. Regret was flooding his insides, the pain in his face nothing compared to the pain emanating from his chest at the sight before him. He'd gone too far this time. Out of everything that he might have said, _that_ was the thing he had chosen. There was such an unspeakable amount of pain in her eyes that he could feel his throat constricting at the sight of it. He reached his arms toward her, but she stepped back, shaking her head and finally spilling the tears she had been holding onto for so long. But John stepped toward her again. He had to make her see, to show her how badly he already regretted those words.

"Mar-" he pleaded, voice cracking and cutting her name short. He reached for her arm, but she jerked it back.

"Don't." she whispered, her pained voice carving its misery into his soul. "Don't touch me." He didn't get the chance to grant her request however, because she placed a trembling hand on her forehead wobbled unsteadily.

"Margaret." John said loudly, taking hold of her shoulders to steady her. But she did not respond, and instead fell limply against his chest in a dead faint.

* * *

A/N: Soooooooooo…whatcha think? Not what you were expecting I'm sure. Sorry I just breezed through the wedding in this chapter. I wanted to focus more on their thoughts _during_ their wedding, than their actual wedding. I left a lot to your imagination. Also, thanks for the very positive responses for my last chapter. As I believe I stated before, I wasn't actually going to write any of that in. but at the request of several reviewers I felt I owed it to you. So, I'm glad you enjoyed it =)

Also, things were a little bit lighter between John and Margaret in the majority of this chapter. When I re-read this the first time, I thought it seemed a little out of character with the way they've been for the last eleven chapters. But I want to explain it now so that if you feel the same way, you aren't angry at me for it later. ;) I really just felt that because of the super intense emotional stress he was dealing with, John would unintentionally take it easy. He relaxed a little, let himself be happy for a little bit, because despite everything, he loves Margaret, and he just married her. No matter what, there's going to be a little hope for him to cling to now, and even though he hasn't realized it yet, it was making him just a little more carefree.

As for Margaret's change in attitude…does it really need explaining? John kissed her four times. I'd be in a good mood too. ;)

Review!


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 12

_"Don't." she whispered, her pained voice carving its misery into his soul. "Don't touch me." He didn't get the chance to grant her request however, because she placed a trembling hand on her forehead and wobbled unsteadily._

_"Margaret." John said loudly, taking hold of her shoulders to steady her. But she did not respond, and instead fell limply against his chest in a dead faint._

"Margaret!" John said loudly, propping her lifeless body against his and holding it securely with one arm. With the other he patted her face firmly, but not enough to cause her pain. She did not stir. He placed his hand on her forehead and felt the warmth of fever there, much warmer than it had been earlier. Sighing in desperation, but not quite allowing himself to panic just yet, he bent down and lifted Margaret into his arms with surprising ease. He quickly made his way up into the house, up the stairs, and to his room where he lay her down as gently as he could manage, ringing the bell for his valet on the way. He refused to allow himself to panic, and thus made himself stay busy. He walked over to the side table and poured some water into the bowl that lay there. He then walked to his dresser and pulled out one of his cravats, folding it neatly lengthwise, before taking it and the water to his bedside. With a deliberately forced calm, he slowly soaked his cravat, wrung it out as best as he could, and lay it gently on Margaret's forehead. John made to repeat the motion when a knock sounded at the door.

"Come." He called. His valet Carter, a man not many years John's senior, entered and bowed slightly.

"Yes sir?" He asked before he caught sight of the bed. His expression changed to one of concern. "Is the Mistress unwell, sir?" He asked before he could stop himself.

"I'm afraid so." John replied. "I need you to go and fetch Dr. Donaldson straight away." Carter bowed once more and made to leave the room, but John stopped him. "I am sorry, Carter." he said sincerely. "I know I told you to take a few days for yourself. Please feel free to continue to do so once you return."

"Thank you, Master." He replied, a ghost of a smile on his face, and left the room. John was left staring at the place he had just vacated, quite unsure of what he should do. Nowhere, in any place of his mind, had he imagined his wedding night turning out this way. He had of course, imagined dozens of scenarios of what would happen when he brought Margaret here for the first time as his wife, and none of them had included her rendered unconscious by a raging fever and emotional overexertion caused by himself. Why couldn't he have just kept quiet? It had been such a wonderful day. And unexpectedly wonderful day. Just that morning he had been fighting back nausea so anxious he was with thoughts of what Margaret might do. He should have given more thought to what _he_ might do to her. He should have listened to himself, and stopped while he was ahead. But he _needed_ answers. He needed to know about the man at Outwood. He needed to know that there was a chance, however microscopic it was, that he could gain her heart. Perhaps he should have waited, given her the chance to tell him of the man at Outwood Station on her own. She was after all, now his wife. They were now a unit, operating together. She probably would have told him eventually...Wouldn't she? He sighed loudly, running a hand over his face in exasperation. They were probably the worst two communicators in all of history. He scrubbed his hand irritably down his face, and glanced over at Margaret, guilt flooding his insides. He didn't have time to feel guilty right now; that could wait until after he had spoken to Dr. Donaldson. He'd gone this long suppressing everything, and he could go a little longer. John stood and removed the cloth from Margaret's forehead, rewetted it, and ran it gently over her face once more. Oh, what had he done? A knock at the door roused his from his depreciating thoughts, and he walked briskly towards it, admitting his valet and the doctor.

"Good evening, Mr. Thornton." Dr. Donaldson said in a somewhat weary manner. "While I'm not particularly surprised at your summons, I must say it is a bit _sooner_ than I anticipated." John blushed quite against his will, but managed to reply in his usual calm and clear manner.

"My apologies doctor, while you did explain this earlier, I thought it best to call you as I am not entirely comprehensive of the extent of her illness." Dr. Donaldson smiled knowingly at him before making his way to the bedside.

"What happened, if I may be so bold to ask?" He asked John after a moment checking Margaret over. His blush most unwillingly resumed it's earlier progression up his neck and to his cheeks, and he cleared his throat somewhat anxiously.

"We…had a slight disagreement…" he said with conviction trailing off into uncertainty. He cleared his throat again, this time in an attempt to maintain a sense of stability. "I had noticed she was becoming increasingly unwell during the reception and although she did not speak a word of it to me, I insisted that we should return here. I believe our-conversation must have been too much for her. She lost consciousness around thirty minutes ago." The doctor nodded, still looking at Margaret, and hummed in ascent.

"Well," he said cheerfully, turning to face him and packing his things back into his bag. "It seems much worse than it really is. I'm afraid I may have kept her in bed a little too much this last week. She's merely exhausted herself. Let her wake on her own; she'll need plenty of rest for the next few weeks, and keep her meals light. I would endeavor to say she'll be as good as new in about three weeks." John nodded in understanding, following the older man out of the room and into the hallway, shaking his hand gratefully.

"What about the fever?" He asked. Dr. Donaldson frowned for a moment, as thought contemplating something.

"It could be something to worry about," he said, looking down at the carpet. "But there's nothing we can do except to let her body fight it off. Her father said this was nothing too out of the ordinary for her. I am to understand that while it is difficult for her to become ill, it is also a rather lengthy process for her to overcome it. Her mother was very similar." John nodded, a hundred conflicting emotions rising up inside of him. His expression must have betrayed his inner turmoil, for the doctor added: "Do not fret sir," He said, smiling reassuringly at him. "Your wife will make a full recovery in time. I do not believe you should concern yourself unless the fever persists for more than a week, but I will call in a few days if it will ease your mind. I would however, strongly advise removing her corset as soon as possible, so she does not suffer from oxygen deprivation."

"Thank you, doctor." John said earnestly, shaking his hand once again and moving towards the stairs.

"Don't trouble yourself Mr. Thornton." He replied. "I can show myself out. Go back to your wife, and get some rest." John tried to smile in thanks, but he felt that it came out more like a grimace. He walked quietly back to his room, before Dr. Donaldson's final instructions permeated the fog of his mind.

"…_Removing her corset as soon as possible, so she does not suffer oxygen deprivation." _

John stopped rather abruptly outside his door and stared incomprehensively at the wall in front of him. That Margaret was lying in bed encumbered by her wedding dress, and would not pass a restful night whilst wearing it had not ever occurred to him. Of course, she would've changed into a nightdress on her own…were she not unconscious. He had not considered the fact that she was laced tightly into a very restricting corset, that would hinder her ability breath properly. But of course it made sense now that it had been brought to his attention. She would have to get out of that dress somehow, most likely by his own hands. He was her husband, after all. Wasn't this part of his duty, to undress his wife?

No not exactly.

Well, yes, exactly. It was something he was supposed to do. But not while she was unconscious, not while she was burning with fever from an illness he still felt that he had inadvertently caused, not without requited love, and certainly, under _no _circumstances without her consent. He shuddered slightly. Could he _do_ this? He was a man of honor, a man of extreme reservation, a man of absolute control. But he was a man violently in love, and quite often driven ridiculously over the boundaries of his self control by that very same woman. He would not take advantage of her, God no. He wasn't a barbarian. But even he had enough intelligence to know that undressing that woman, that gloriously beautiful, enchanting, wonderful woman who was now his _wife_ would require an exorbitant amount of self-control. He would do it however, and knew that he could do it, because for Margaret he would and always could do anything she needed. As he always had from the moment he first became aware of his love for her. God only knew what would transpire if she were to _regain_ her consciousness whilst being undressed by him of all people, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. He lingered in the hallway an unnecessary amount of time, before coming to his senses. He opened the door, and walked to the bed.

"Margaret." He called softly, leaning closer to her ear. He would try to wake her first. He respected her, and her privacy enough for that. "Margaret?" He called again, louder than before but still quite soft. He pushed some of the hair that had been trapped underneath his damp cravat away from her forehead. He moved his hand down and cupped her face in the very same manner that he had done when he walked her home from the Higgins' home practically a thousand years ago. "Margaret." He called again stroking her face with his thumb, voice firm, completely against the insecurity he felt within himself at that moment. She stirred then, only a little, and murmured something incomprehensible. Taking this as a sign of luck, he pressed forward. "Margaret, you cannot sleep in your wedding dress. I'm going to help you get changed." John was surprised at how calm and secure his tone was, when he was anything but on the inside. Margaret was stirring, but she did not fully awake.

"Mmm hmm." she mumbled. John seriously doubted that she actually understood the implications of what he had just said to her. But he could not blame her. It was increasingly obvious that she was not entirely lucid. Fever, especially high fever could do unusual and sometimes quite deadly things to even the healthiest of people. But her responses were encouraging to him. They made him feel less…appalling somehow. As though he wasn't quite so despicable, because he had told Margaret what he was doing, he was talking to her, even if she was not responding to him with full clarity. He felt so entirely awkward and horrible for what he was doing even though it was necessary, that he didn't really know where to begin. He cleared his throat.

"Dr. Donaldson said the fever wasn't too serious." He said, easing tension he felt at beginning this somewhat uncomfortable task. As he spoke, he set to work, starting with her shoes, the easiest article on her. "He says that you will be back to normal in no longer than three weeks." He tried to keep his tone strong and light, telling himself that it was for her benefit, not his. He could not ignore the growing unsteadiness in his voice as he looked at her stockings. So he focused intently on her face as though she were actually conversing with him, and bunched up the stocking above her ankle, and pulled. But nothing happened. Assuming they must be hooked somewhere, but not wanting to look away from her face, he blindly (and tentatively) brushed his fingers a little further up her leg until he found the edge of the stocking. Pointedly refusing to acknowledge how warm and soft the skin on her leg was, he found a clasp and managed to release it with ease, and quickly released the one on her other leg as well. The uncomfortable feeling was settling back in to his stomach, and he floundered for a topic. "We could go to the country when you're well, if you like." He added in a falsely cheerful voice that made him wince, while he quickly grabbed the hem of each stocking and quickly pulled it down and off.

"I haven't been to the country in years." He continued in the breathlessly false cheer. He sat down on the bed next to her, and gently lifted her upper body, cradling her head, and propping her weight against his chest while he fumbled through unbuttoning her bodice with trembling hands. "Perhaps we could go to Helstone," _Oh, there were so many buttons on this dress!_ "And you could show me where you spent your childhood." At last the final button had been freed, and he gently placed back down on the mattress. He continued to speak, not breaking for fear that he might not accomplish his task if he was not speaking to her. "I cannot tell you," He pulled her arms out of the bodice one by one, and lay them at her side. He glanced down quickly and located the buttons of her skirt. "How often I have dreamed of seeing Helstone." He pulled the skirt down, careful not to tear the sheer material, and set to unbuttoning the underskirt. "You speak so fondly of it, I often find myself daydreaming about visiting such beautiful places." Margaret made no response aside from her feverish mumblings. After he removed the underskirt, John looked down expecting to see the corset, but was met with more layers. He knew (and he could not even remember how), that the corset was the last thing to be removed, with the exception of the chemise, which he would not touch. Already he could feel his face warming at the thought of it, and he forced himself to speak again, and to keep his head. "I think I may safely guess that you would be more than willing for a bit of fresh air after being confined to the indoors for as long as you have been." John lifted her again and awkwardly managed to extricate her for the corset cover. After he removed her petticoat (still looking only at her face as much as he could help it), he gathered the various clothing items, and draped them neatly over the chaise lounge in the corner of the room. He returned to the bed, lifted Margaret once more and placed her against him. Peering over her head, he spotted the intricate lacing of her corset, and slowly, while keeping a steady stream of conversation, he managed to unlace it. "I would have to work quite a bit more than I normally do to prepare for such a journey, but I think I can easily venture that we could travel in four weeks." Using one hand to keep her against him, he pried the corset out from between them with the other, and tossed it a little unceremoniously on the far end of the mattress. "I wouldn't mind working so much though," He continued desperately trying not to think about how little clothing she was now wearing. It was practically impossible to accomplish. Her body was burning with fever, and was warming him effortlessly now that there was hardly anything covering it.

Not that he needed to be any warmer.

Margaret's face was resting in the crook of his neck, scorching it immediately. He could feel her shallow breaths briefly cooling his blazing skin, lips sometimes coming in contact with him while she mumbled senselessly, and burning him in an entirely different way. One by one, with his breaths now coming out in sharp gasps, he probed her hair for pins, setting them on the table closest to his bed. When he was certain that there was nothing more in her hair, running his fingers through it perhaps a little more than was strictly necessary, he moved to lay her back on the bed. For several reasons, among them that he wasn't entirely certain he could trust himself, he held Margaret close to his chest as he lowered her back down, keeping himself pressed against her and allowing the mattress to claim his feverish wife. He would allow himself this one transgression, this one horrible betrayal of her trust. He had kept his word, and (miraculously) kept his eyes from wandering, but he could not help this; this one tiny, miniscule act of comforting affection from this woman who wasn't even lucid enough to comprehend what was happening, was enough to practically break him and drive him to insanity. So he indulged, just this once for it would never happen again, in the warmth of her body beneath his. He listened in rapture to the sound of her senseless mumbling in his ear, felt the slight pressure of her chest expanding against his, and reminisced the euphoria he had felt while his lips pressed against hers.

"There is nothing I could not endure for you." He finished in her ear, before forcing himself away from her. He felt blindly around her for the edge of the blanket, pulled it out from under her, and replaced it on top of her, creasing it underneath her. Quite begrudgingly, he shuffled over to the chaise lounge and removed his cravat, coat, and shoes, carefully setting them aside Margaret's wedding clothes. He shuffled his way back to the bedside, grabbing the back of a chair along the way and dragging it along with him, before dumping it unceremoniously on the floor by Margaret's side. He snuffed all but a few of the lights left in the room, pulled the chair close to Margaret, and placed his hand on her face once more. "Goodnight, my love." He breathed, leaning forward with doubt flooding his veins.

He pressed his lips to hers for the fifth time, knowing it would be the last time it happened, knowing that when Margaret finally woke, things would return to the horrible uncertainty, that had been poisoning things between them for nearly a year. Knowing that she could not stand to be in his presence, knowing that he had condemned her to this fate, this marriage that she had not wanted. Knowing that she would be disgusted with him for forcing himself upon her, for the terrible things he had spoken, for undressing her without her consent…But he tried not to think too much on the subject. So John sat at the chair beside the bed, took hold of Margaret's hand in his own, and lay his head down on the blankets, thinking only of the lingering pressure of Margaret's lips, and the tune of the music that had played while they danced at their wedding as he drifted off to sleep.

A/N: Ok, not too long, but I think its pretty good. I just enjoy suspense, as I'm sure you've noticed. =) Incase you're wondering, the song I envisioned them dancing to at their wedding was Bach's Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major (You can also search for BWV 1007 in Google, and it will take you to a YouTube video that inspired this). I highly recommend listening to this =D I think you'll love it!

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Also, to my 200th reviewer **Laura**, you are amazing, and I love you! =D And in answer to your question, Margaret was still recovering from her illness that she contracted a couple weeks ago. It is extremely likely she could have fainted from overexertion after constant bedrest for nearly two weeks. And you're very right, it's extremely unusual for a woman to slap a man in those days. But John and Margaret aren't your conventional couple, and both have a tendency make the others' self control evaporate with a few words. So basically she just lost her cool big time and smacked the fire out of him ;) Anyways peeps, I love you guys and I can not wait to hear from you! =D


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Hey everyone! I'm sorry it's been much longer than usual since my last update. I'll be honest, I had a little trouble figuring out which direction I wanted to go in with this chapter. But after much deliberating, I found a way which I think will be the best. You're reviews are wonderful as always! I can't tell you how much they mean to me =) I was so pleased that you all especially loved that John talked to Margaret while undressing her. I wasn't so sure you'd find that very…..John, I supposed. But I'm glad you liked it nonetheless. I've also been tinkering around with an idea for another story, obviously another N&S story. Don't worry, I wont start writing anything until after this one is finished, but I'd like to know you're thoughts, haha. And now I will stop rambling, and just get on to the chapter, because lets be honest, that's what you're really here for ;)

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Chapter 14

He knew this place; he'd been here before, but it looked somewhat different then. The sky was dark, covered by thick black clouds, but the air was hot. Oh, it was so stifling hot in the house. He noticed then that he was in Crampton, at the Hale's home. But it was different, darker somehow. As though the walls had been tinged with coal dust.

"John." He jerked around at the sound of his name, but saw no one. It wasn't loud, but the unexpectedness of it sent his heart racing. Squinting through the haze in the room, he tentatively made his way forward, peering around every corner with hesitation.

"John." He spun around again, looking behind him into the hallway. The voice that called for him was just barely above a whisper, but it was sorrowful and broken, begging him for he knew not what. It was a woman's voice. He followed the sound through the hall and up the stairs, feeling an increasing urgency. Each time she spoke his name it was more desperate than the last. Finally, when he reached a door and could hear her voice from behind it, his eyes beheld her at last. She stood before him, wearing a wedding dress that might have perhaps once been quite beautiful. Now it was tattered and torn, as discolored by the black smoke as the walls and sky were. "John." she cried, voice straining with emotion. Then he noticed the blackness on her skin, covering her face and hands, save for two vertical strips beneath her eyes where a flow of tears seemed to have cleaned away the smoke. He stepped into the room trying to focus on her face, but the only light was coming from the window directly behind her, thus obscuring his view. "John" she continued in her terrible, broken plea.

Margaret. It was Margaret.

He crossed the space between them and grasped her face. "Margaret!" He exclaimed, not understanding. She did not speak, nor even make any physical acknowledgment that he was there. "What is it Margaret?" He searched her eyes, hoping to uncover the answer there, but she looked at him distantly, as though he were not even there at all.

"John." She whispered, eyes filling with tears but still unseeing.

"I'm here, my love. I'm right here." he replied, his voice surprisingly calm. He stroked his thumb across her cheek, but was distracted by the unusual feeling in his right hand. He pulled it back, bringing it closer to his face to inspect it in the dim lighting, and found it red with blood. He looked back to Margaret, and turned her face to search for the source of the blood. It started above her left temple, coursing down her face and dripping onto the dress below. This looked…familiar. It looked like… "How can this be?" He asked, looking at the familiar injury. The wound she had taken on his behalf.

"I chose this." John looked back into her eyes, still looking distantly at him. "Remember that I chose this, John."

"Margaret, what are you talking about?" He asked, trying to capture her gaze to no avail.

"John."

"_John…"_

John jerked awake disoriented, heart thumping wildly. _Where was he? What was going on?"_

"John…Jo…John…" His mind cleared instantly, and his attention returned to Margaret. She was restless, tossing and turning wildly in her sleep, face flushed deeply and…calling for him? He was momentarily frozen, his dream still lingering in his the front of his mind and he tried to shake the image away. The image of a smoke and blood-stained Margaret. But try as he might, he could not un-see it. The vision of Margaret in her wedding dress, still so fresh in his mind from when she had worn it just the day before, and the broken tone she used when calling for him only added to the clarity of imperception. But he suppressed his uneasiness in the same manner he always did, and focused on the woman laying in his-_their_- bed.

"I'm here, Margaret." He said softly, gripping her hand again and attempting to calm her whilst brushing the hair out of her face. Her forehead was blazing with fever, and his heart sunk a little. Despite the confident assurances of Dr. Donaldson the night before, he _was_ worried for Margaret. He wanted to suppress that as well, to push it down and ignore it as he did so many other things, but it was impossible. It ate away at him regardless, clawing a slow, torturous path through his body, and leaving it raw with uncertainty. Surely she would recover. It wasn't _that_ serious of an illness, was it? The doctor seemed unconcerned, even stating that it was to be expected out of everything that occurred. That it was a combination of overexertion, and illness. But he worried still. And the dream…the dream terrified him more than all other fears combined. He knew what his mind was telling him. His subconscious repeating the words of their argument back to him. Of Margaret saying she had made this choice; the choice to be his wife. And his demented mind showed him what that choice had done to her, would continue to do her. What he had done to her. He had ruined her, caused her injury, made a mockery of a wedding for her… this would not do. He forced himself to remain occupied, and set about calming Margaret's terrors. He might not be able to purge such thoughts from his mind, but perhaps he could help ease her fevered delusions for a short time. John located the cloth he had used the night before, and dampened it again, hoping to offer her some relief. After a few hours of this, her thrashing did eventually subside, and her murmuring (although not entirely faded) was much calmer than it had been when he awoke. When it faded completely and she began a restful slumber, John sat back in his chair and sighed exhaustedly. The fear was beginning to creep upon him once more, and he rubbed absentmindedly at his chest. '_She will be fine,'_ he told himself. But he found it wasn't the illness that was unsettling him. No, a new type of fear was rippling through him that he hadn't given very much thought to until that moment. Had he truly done the right thing by marrying her? But he found for the first time, he wasn't thinking about how Margaret would react, how Margaret felt about being his wife now, how Margaret viewed this sham of a relationship, or what horrible sacrifice he had forced Margaret to make. He was thinking about what everyone else was thinking of Margaret.

There had been talk of her, yes, he had heard that much with his own ears. He had seen the pointed fingers, and heard the hushed tones of those he passed in the street, but he had never paid it any heed. He was enduring the disgrace, on Margaret's behalf. Taking the blame away from her, for she had been on that night, truly blameless. The extent of her impropriety only reached to her granting him the privilege of calling her by her Christian name. He was one who tossed his self control into a blazing furnace and took affectionate liberties without even knowing whether they would be welcome or not. Surely anyone would have seen that. But no, men were generally blameless in situations such as those. It was the women who were always wanton, immoral deceivers for accepting affection from a man, no matter how inconsequential. After all, hadn't he assumed that Margaret was the one to blame for the incident at Outwood? True she had lied about being there, but if John were honest, he had long since placed the blame on her. And continued to blame her. And so would Milton, he realized. Milton would always place the blame on her, the foreigner, the disgraced, and very recently, the immoral. Had she really been thrown out of shops? He very seriously doubted that Higgins would lie to him on any account, but least of all where it concerned Margaret. He harbored an unexpected affection for her, and would never have falsified something so serious. If John remembered correctly, he had actually come there accusing him of doing nothing.

Of course, he had done nothing. Doing something had obviously ended badly for her the first time, and doing nothing, keeping her safely at home with her father where she was happy, should have had at least some positive result. But it hadn't. He had been wrong; so very, very wrong, like he had been with everything else regarding Margaret. Now she was his wife. He had gotten exactly what he had wanted from her in the first place. And he felt disgusted with himself for it. A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. "Come." he called, voice raspy at being used loudly for the first time.

"I thought you might enjoy some refreshment, sir." Carter said cheerfully upon entering. He carried a large tray bearing a plate of sandwiches, tea, and even a few blueberry scones. John smiled appreciatively at him, not noticing how hungry he was until the moment his eyes found the food.

"Thank you Carter, it's very kind of you to take the time to bring me this." John replied. "Please give Molly my thanks as well, I'm sure no such meal could have existed without her." Carter smiled at him, and as John took a rather large bite out of a scone, he suddenly better. A hope a been rekindled within him.

"Would it be too presumptuous to inquire after the Mistress?" Carter asked, looking uncertainly at the floor. John frowned slightly, and looked back to Margaret, still sleeping more restless than could be considered 'normal'.

"Dr. Donaldson is confident she will make a full recovery." He replied, his tone betraying his uncertainty. "Her fever is increasing, but she is sleeping peacefully for now, at least."

"Molly prepared a special broth for her, to help keep her calm and relaxed. I can bring it back up if it suits you." John gave him a small smile.

"Yes, thank you." He replied before helping himself to a few sandwiches while he waited. But it wasn't long before Carter reappeared with a steaming bowl of broth, and a book on an additional tray.

"Here you are, Master." Carter set the tray down at the far end of the bed. "And I've brought this up for you as well." He handed him the book. "It will help to relax her when the fever rages again." John smiled appreciatively at him, before he vanished out into the hallway.

Eventually the fever did rage again, and the delusions and murmuring started resumed, more terrible than they had been before. She was thrashing, and calling out incoherently, hair clinging to her face and her brow furrowed in pain. He had tried everything to wake her, save for throwing a bucket of cold water on her. But he doubted even that would work. She whimpered and cried, calling for him in the terrible broken way she had in his dream and he whispered his presence back to her, but she did not hear him. So he dried her tears, attempted to calm her terrors, and reassure her of his presence while continuously refreshing the cloth on her forehead, all the while ignoring any thought or need that arose within him. He did not need food. He did not need sleep. And he did not need to go to the Mill and check-up on anything. The only thing he needed to do, was sit in the chair beside his bed, and calm his ailing wife in whatever way he could, be it reading, shushing, or comforting. Which he did persistently. He lost track of minutes, and hours, and days. He lost track of the world beyond his bedroom, of the rumors that were still carrying heavily on the wind, he lost track of everything that had occurred between them, of their reasons for marrying. He lost track of the people who had come to visit him, for nothing else mattered. Nothing mattered but being what Margaret needed, the moment that she needed it. When her condition worsened, he could not be swayed from her side even for food.

And so it was that five whole days had passed since the day Carter had brought him the book. Six days since their wedding night. Six days since he had seen her eyes. Five days since he had slept, three days since he had eaten, and only one day since her fever had finally broken. There had been visitors of course, but the only ones he remembered were Nicholas Higgins, Richard Hale, and of course Dr. Donaldson who couldn't really be considered a visitor anymore. They had spoken to him, he was certain of it, but he could not remember what they had said, or even how he himself had replied. He was in a somewhat catatonic state. Once it had been proclaimed that 'the worst was officially over', they had tried to force him away from her side, but John would not be swayed, and dismissed them all. He longed for the quiet. It was not five minutes after he resumed his place by her side, habitually placing a hand to her forehead to check her temperature, that he slumped over and promptly fell asleep.

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The black fog in Margaret's mind lifted slowly, the pain in her head increasing with every second of awareness she gained. But through the pain she knew that something was not right; this was not her room, the lighting was different. Why was her head throbbing so? She tried to recall the events of the night before but came up blank. She could not remember what she had been doing the night before, nor indeed, for several days it seemed. Everything was fuzzy and still shrouded by the accursed fog in her mind. She opened her eyes slowly but found she could see easily, as the room was not very bright. She did not move her head, but took in the surroundings she could see with her eyes, and recognized nothing. After some time had passed and the fog and pain began to fade away, she became aware of a strange pressure against her left side. She moved her head slowly to investigate and saw with a shock, a man. His face partially obscured by the arm it was resting in, raven-haired head nestled gently against her side, left hand resting casually against the blankets above her knee, caused a flood of memories to crash over her, and the sensation was so unusual a surprised gasp escaped her before she could stop it. And then he shot up like bolt, eyes wide in confusion and even a little fear.

"Margaret!" He exclaimed, and quickly reached for a cloth on the bedside table before pressing it against her forehead. His movements were so startled that he knocked over a bowl of water, and it shattered on the floor. "I'm here, Margaret, I'm here." he spoke, his voice raspy. She realized then, that he had not yet realized she was awake. She must have been quite ill. He looked as though he had not slept at all that night, his eyes holding that somewhat delirious quality in them, rimmed with redness that made his blue eyes more piercing than ever, and encircled by a blackness that made her feel guilty. He stood over her, gently rubbing her forehead with the cloth, and she noticed then, due the close proximity of their faces, how thin his appeared to be since the night before. Perhaps it was a trick of the light? Or perhaps it was how he looked without his cravat, for indeed it was missing, as were the first several buttons of his undershirt. She had never seen him this way before. "Don't worry Margaret, I will not leave." He continued, snapping her out of her reverie.

"John." She whispered. He continued in his task, still completely unaware of her consciousness.

"Shh, I am here Margaret." He continued.

"John." she said firmly, this time placing her hand on the arm currently attending to her head. The effect was immediate. He froze, looking at her hand in disbelief, slowly turning his eyes to find hers. The piercing icy blue met hers for a moment, before she felt as though the air had been crushed from her body. It took her a moment to realize that he had pulled her up to his chest, hugging her tightly. She tried to ignore the burning that seeped from her stomach into her chest at such close contact, but found it impossible.

"I can not tell you what a relief to see your eyes again." She blushed furiously, quite thankful at the moment for being able to hide her face against his body. But he quickly pulled her back and stared into her eyes. She didn't understand now, but she knew she would get answers from him when he was coherent enough to give them. Suddenly she frowned, looking critically back into his eyes.

"How long has it been since you slept?" she asked. "You can hardly keep your head up. Go and get some sleep. I feel very well, you need not concern yourself." He nodded at her sleepily, but rather than leaving the room as she expected, he merely clambered over her body, crashing face-first into the pillows, almost immediately unconscious.

Oh yes, they were married now. She must be in his bed.

The realization, although completely foreign to her, was not altogether terrifying as she thought it would be. And as she looked upon the sight of her husband beside her, face betraying his exhausted relief, she found she felt a little guilty even at how much she enjoyed that he would be willing to sleep beside her. Her heart soared against her will at the thought of him caring for her so diligently. The was he was comforting her as she woke, reassuring her that she would not be alone, and that he would be there for her. Soon her body distracted her with needs of their own, and she quickly located a glass of water and tray of scones on the bedside table. Not caring to whom these objects belonged to, she quickly (and unceremoniously) crammed down three scones and the entire glass of water, before slipping herself into peaceful bliss.

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Sooooooo, a filler chapter. Not too interesting, but just enough I think. Sorry it took so long, midterms and all. More on the way soon =D

PS: I love you all so much!


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Margaret woke slowly, but substantially more lucid than she had been previously. She could tell without opening her eyes that the sun was shining, it's bright warm light caressing her face and filling her with an unusual sense of cheerfulness. The birds outside were singing beautiful melodies of impending springtime, and the steady presence of the Mill made her feel protected and safe. Much like the man who ran it. In the quietness of the morning she could hear his soft, steady breathing indicating that he was still asleep. She could feel him beside her. They weren't exactly pressed together, but they were very close. Certainly much closer than they had ever been before. She could tell he was still on his stomach, most likely so exhausted that he hadn't moved the entire night, or however long it was they had been sleeping. His face must have been turned towards her own, for she could feel his breath touching the very top of her forehead right at her hairline. The more she focused on their position, the more she became aware of him beside her. Everywhere he touched, every breath he took, the way his back expanded each time and pressed against her side. His upper arm that was pressed against the side of her face, the way he smelled…

Perhaps it wasn't the unseasonably sunny day that was bringing her cheer after all.

Finally, she opened her eyes and tried focusing, but all she could see was the white, wrinkled, and rolled-up sleeve of John's shirt. She tried to move her head back, but found she couldn't. His hand somehow made it's way into her hair, where it was currently tangled and preventing her from moving away from him. Not that she particularly minded where she was. She was actually enjoying it very much. But eventually the gnawing of doubt and insecurity made her mind wander to an area it was not yet accustomed to being in. What if _he_ minded waking like this? She was in his bed after all, would he have expected her to move to her own bed after she woke? They had only been married one, perhaps two full days. Perhaps this would be too unusual for him. He didn't think very highly of her, after all. And there was the matter of that argument the night before-or was it two nights before? She didn't know how long they'd slept. But the memory was still very fresh on her mind, as though it had just happened. She did not doubt it would be the same for him as well. Margaret wasn't very clear on all the details of how it started-or ended for that matter- but she did remember one thing very clearly: John asking her why she had married him.

It was a complicated question, to be sure. It didn't have an easy answer either. She honestly didn't know why she agreed to marry him. The last day Margaret had seen him was the day his mother had called on her. The day he adamantly protested marrying her to her father. He had not asked for her hand in person, and she knew nothing of what might have passed between John and her father before then. Perhaps he could not bear to face her after everything that passed between them. It was unfortunately, a situation they were both quite familiar with, and had already been in before with disastrous consequences. Perhaps her father would not allow him to, seeing as how she had been quite ill and may not have been able to receive him properly. A tiny part of her mind suggested a new idea: that perhaps he didn't feel the need to ask her in person. Perhaps he knew she could not, would not refuse him twice. She forced herself to banish the thought. He would not do that. He was too honorable for that. Even after all that she had done to him, she knew undeniably that he would never do something like that out of spite. His arm twitched then, and she looked at his face. It was so different to see him like this; his face free of any emotion or expression. It made him look…vulnerable. Something she had only really seen on one other occasion, only she didn't have the foresight then to understand what it meant. But she understood it now. It represented a fear that would never abate but were strong enough to face, it spoke of the depth of a person's soul, but most importantly to Margaret it said: 'I am trusting you with everything I am.' It was then that she noticed the first fluttering of his eyelids. The fear that she would be unwelcome here, had just enough time to completely take hold of her before his eyes opened completely. John stared into her eyes, piercing her with his usual intensity for what felt like eternity.

"Hello." He whispered. Margaret was frozen with terror, insecurity sweeping over her in waves. She had never felt like this around him before. Insecurity and shame, yes, but never to this intensity. Then again, she had never woken next to him in bed, after staring at him for God only knew how long.

"Hello." she whispered back. He was quiet for several minutes, a slight frown on his face that Margaret didn't know what to make of.

"I have no idea how I ended up here." He said finally, voice still thick with sleep. Margaret stared back at him for a long time, once more trying to conceal it. But she couldn't. The sincerity in his expression was her undoing. In exactly the same manner as she had when he had walked her home from the Higgins' home, she pressed a her hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. The immediate confusion in his expression only made it more amusing. His brows furrowed, head tilted to the side, was made more comical by the fact that he was still on his stomach. Margaret giggled uncontrollably. "What is it about me that amuses you so?" He asked. She glanced back into his eyes again, and briefly registered the slight frown on his face, before her mind registered another realization. Their faces were incredibly, impossibly close. She didn't notice how close they actually were while he was sleeping. He seemed surreal then. She certainly noticed it now. An unexplained nervousness began to settle in her stomach.

"You have absolutely how amusing you are." She replied matter-of-factly. She was sure he did not intend on being so very funny; Margaret was only just realizing he possessed the attribute herself. John simply arched his brow, looking at her with boyish curiosity, although he did still bear the slight frown.

"Is that so?" He also appeared to have absolutely no idea the effect he was having on her. Margaret tried desperately to reclaim control over her nervous and giddy self, but failed. So instead of forming a reply, she simply stared at him entirely transfixed, forbidding herself from lowering her eyes to his lips. It was his fault, really. She would never, ever, have thought of kissing him at this moment if he wouldn't have kissed her the way he did on their wedding day. Even after two days, she could already feel her lips burning simply with the remembrance of his having been there at one point. His expression, still serious, held something more in it that she could not identify. She thought perhaps she had seen it before in his eyes, but she could not place it, nor what it signified. He opened his mouth a little, took a deep breath, and broke their searing eye contact. Margaret felt herself deflate somewhat. "I cannot feel my arm." He stated abruptly, and Margaret found herself laughing once more.

"Oh, I _am_ sorry." She said breathlessly, her voice till shaking slightly with laughter. "Truly, I am not mocking you, but you are very amusing." He did not smile. In fact, his expression was still quite stern. It was the ever so slight twinkle in his eye that became the hole in his wall of impenetrable emotional strength. It made her feel giddy. The fact that he had thus far not banished her from his sight gave Margaret a boldness that, while she was quite familiar with it, caused phrases to come tumbling out of her mouth she would not normally have spoken. "I would gladly move my head off your arm," one such phrase began. "But I'm afraid I cannot." He looked at her with that wondering, curious expression that made her heart beat a little faster than it already was. Something about that look thrilled her beyond comprehension.

"I do not understand." He replied, tone perfectly matching the expression she was rapidly becoming to love almost as much as the man it belonged to.

"Well you see," She continued in her emboldened and simultaneously nervous tone. "Because I have cut off the circulation to your arm, you are most likely unable to feel that your hand has become quite entangled in my hair. I am, at present, unable to move." He immediately looked apologetic, but she headed him off. "Do not distress yourself John, it causes me no pain." His face transformed before her very eyes to one she had never laid eyes on before. It was light, and joyous, and spoke of a life without troubles.

"That does complicate things." He added, a smile gracing his features fully, entreating Margaret to a sight she never could have imagined.

It was very obvious then, that he truly had no idea the effect he had on her.

It took nearly five minutes to untangle his hand from her hair. It would not have been so difficult normally but John not feel his hand, and neither could actually see where he had trapped it. But at last when his arm was freed, they propped their pillows up against the headboard, neither wanting to dispel this unusual and glorious moment between them. In a moment Margaret could only attribute to force of habit, John pressed his hand to her forehead, looking quite intently at her before declaring that her fever seemed to be gone for good. She smiled at him, suddenly feeling breathless.

"So you never did tell me," He said, reaching over her for the plate of scones on the side table, his body brushing her along the way. He sat back and looked at her as though this were something they did every day. As though it were completely normal for them to be laying in bed together, eating scones. She desperately hoped that perhaps it was, or could be normal. The John sitting next to her, currently sifting through scones to find one of his liking, was so entirely different from the one she had seen just two days ago when he married her. What could have happened between now and then for him to change so drastically? And surely he would have brought up the fight by now? "How _did_ I end up in bed?" Margaret cast a sideways glance at him. One brow arched in contemplation, the twinkling in his eyes magnified by that curious, boyish wonder…Perhaps he did now what he was doing to her. Her heart was practically bruising her ribcage, surely he could hear it, if not see it? What was he doing to her? Didn't he despise her? Forcing herself to attempt some form of nonchalance, she reached over and plucked a scone of the plate now resting on the blanket above his legs.

"Well," she said slowly, contemplating her words. "You practically climbed over me and crashed into the pillows, nearly exactly the same positing you woke up in." She did not know what she expected his reply to be like. Denial, contemplation, anger, shock, but certainly not embarrassment. Indeed, he seemed to inhale a few stray crumbs from his scone for he immediately began to cough wildly, his face, neck, ears, even the very tip of his nose flushed with shame. Although she desperately wanted to, Margaret did not laugh at him. When his coughing subsided, he looked into her eyes, mortified.

"I'm sorry, I do not remember or I could tell you what I was thinking, or perhaps _not_ thinking-"

"Again, do not concern yourself too much. I was barely sane enough myself to think on it any more than simple observation. And you had not slept all night, so I'm quite certain you cannot be held too accountable for your actions." The teasing smile she wore faded when she caught sigh of his expression. But he did not elaborate, and she floundered for another topic. She wanted to avoid their conversation on their wedding night, but did not know of anything else to discuss. Still she waited several minutes before she felt brave enough to actually speak the words. "I am sorry about last night." she said eventually. She turned to see him studying her face intently, as though trying to work something out in his mind.

"What do you mean?" He asked quietly.

"Well, I honestly don't remember too much of it.." she trailed off uncertainly. "But I do remember shouting at you, and for that I am sorry. You did not deserve it."

"Although I will disagree with you how much of it I did deserve, I do feel that I've already been punished quite enough for it." Margaret would have laughed, if she could have seen any trace of humor in his features. "I cannot say I have ever been so deserving of a slap in my entire life, and for that I am also sorry."

"What?" she exclaimed, not entirely understanding.

"You have quite and intimidating arm, Margaret. I must say I have never been hit so forcefully by a woman before. Actually," he paused as though contemplating. "I don't think I have ever been slapped by a woman before." Now it was Margaret's turn for unbearable mortification.

"What!" She exclaimed, feeling her face flame and her hands shake. Surely she did not do something so deeply appalling as slapping him. "Please tell me I did no such thing! Oh, how could you ever forgive me for something so atrocious!" Her face was so hot it might have made the room warmer on its own. She was so overwhelmed with embarrassment that she buried her face in her palms, wishing she could simply die there. But soon she could feel his hands touching hers, gently prying them away from her face, and soon she was staring back into his piercing, wonderful blue eyes.

"Do not distress yourself Margaret." He said softly. "I very much deserved it. And even if I hadn't," he continued, seemingly sensing her imminent interruption. "It speaks something of your character that I greatly admire." She was frozen by his eyes, his look, his _words_ but could not dwell on them for long, because there was a knock on the door, and a man entered. Seemingly oblivious to their current state of…well their current state in general, he set the large tray on a table and began collecting the other dishes and trays that were laying about. It was then that Margaret noticed the state of disorder the room was in. Dishes laying in various places they would not normally be in, bits of cloth strewn about, and in the corner, on a chaise lounge was Margaret's wedding dress, along with all the underclothes that went with it, John's laying directly adjacent. She stared at the clothes incredulously, and looked back at John, who seemed to sense where her gaze had fallen and cleared his throat loudly. Surely he didn't-but the noise had gotten the attention of the man, and startled him so badly he dropped everything he was holding, and directly cut off Margaret's train of thought.

"Oh my-" the man said, gasping for breath and a hand place on his chest. He suddenly seemed to notice her presence, perhaps a few moments before he realized what he had interrupted. Margaret wished she could tell him it wasn't what he thought, that it looked worse than it was, until she remembered that they were married, and such things were completely acceptable for them to be doing. "Forgive me sir," He panted, still struggling to reclaim his nerves. "It's just I wasn't expecting-that is to say you are always-I did not know the Mistress was awake." He finished quickly, his face reddening ever so slightly. A strange feeling encompassed her as she digested the last part of his statement. The Mistress. He had called her the Mistress. She was now the mistress of the house. The responsibility wasn't unknown to her; she had been running her father's household for quite a number of months. It was the realization that she was now running John Thornton's home. She was now Mrs. Thornton.

This would take some getting used to.

* * *

A/N: So here it is, short but sweet. =) I hope I've brought some sort of happy feeling to you with this one, haha. Next chapter will be a lot of John's perspective during this, and probably moving on past what we've covered here. I'm working on that one already. Pretty please, super pretty please review? I love you guys. You're amazing! =D

Ps: sorry I haven't had time to respond to your reviews individually through fan fiction PM like I usually do. I have been very busy lately, and getting these chapters out are difficult as it is. Please don't be too angry. Although, if you have questions about anything, I'll make it a priority to answer it as soon as I can =D


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

He didn't move. How could he even think about moving? He was certain if he did this dream, this lovely tantalizing dream would shatter and he would be forced back to reality. Reality was something he did not particularly want to face at the moment. He wanted to stay right there in that moment. The moment where he woke to the sight of Margaret looking at him. Nothing could have prepared him for the soul-capturing beauty she seemed to emit in the morning. John had never seen her look that way at him ever. He did not know what it meant, what she was feeling, but strangely, he didn't care. For just this once perhaps, he could forget about everything else, he could leave what was unspoken, unspoken, and focus on Margaret. The fact that she was alive was more than enough for him. Even if she despised him for all of his days, she was alive, and he would see her every single day for the rest it. He could live with that. He knew he should say something to her, ease the tension back down and away, but could think of nothing. Finally he settled on the first thing that came to mind ("Hello."), and cursed himself for how idiotic it sounded. He couldn't focus his thoughts that morning, and having Margaret awake to distract him certainly wasn't helping him form proper sentences. Another thought finally dawned upon him. One that probably should have been the first to come to mind upon waking.

Why was he waking up next to Margaret?

He couldn't remember how he came to be in his bed. He vaguely recalled Margaret waking the night before, but all he remembered of himself was the habitual soothing and cooling he had been so consumed with for days. Indeed all of his days had run together, as though they were one very long, very dreadful day. Which he supposed in a sense, they actually were for him. After Dr. Donaldson's initial visit on their wedding night, he did not trust himself to sleep, terrified Margaret would succumb to her illness and he would wake to find her body still and cold before him. She had been so very close to death in those days. Even the doctor was surprised. He had been certain that the worst of her illness had already passed, and her initial condition was merely a cause of bad judgment on his part. But the next day it was blindingly obvious how wrong they had all been to write it off. Pneumonia he had said. It had turned into pneumonia like he had never seen before. No horrible coughing; just a raging fever, severe (and quite terrifying) shaking chills, occasional vomiting and of course, loss of consciousness. But somehow, amazingly she had pulled through, a feat not often achieved by one suffering with pneumonia. A gift from God he could never hope to repay.

"Hello." Margaret replied, jolting him back to reality. He distantly remembered the question that started his train of thought, but pushed it away and focused on Margaret. He could hardly believe she was awake, looking at him, speaking to him even. Those torturous days of trying to keep her alive seemed to have made an impression of her in his mind that was still too dominant to see past.

"I have no idea how I ended up here." He said suddenly, surprising even himself. As though his mind had realized that it was wandering again, and forced the first thing it thought of past his lips. It was true however; he _didn't_ know how he ended up in bed with Margaret. Even the mere thought of the implications of those particular words phrased in that particular way caused his heart to beat a little faster. The memory of undressing her rising unbidden to the forefront of his mind certainly did nothing to help the matter. And neither still did the sight of her beautiful face, so fantastically close to his own, radiant with laughter. He had no idea what she was laughing at, but it did not matter. It transported him. In that moment, he was back in the street walking her home. Even if she would have been mocking him at that moment, he probably wouldn't have minded. The simple thought that he had somehow caused this…perfection was more than enough to sustain him. But the curious part of him wanted to know why she was laughing, just as he had the last time. What he could have possibly done while doing absolutely nothing to bring humor to their situation, he would probably never know. "What is it about me that amuses you so?" John asked, needing his curiosity to be satisfied. Margaret's smile seemed to falter for a moment, but when she answered her voice was still breathless with laughter.

"You have absolutely no idea how amusing you are." She stated it as a fact. As though he might be the funniest person in all the world, but had never known it of himself. He wasn't ever the humorous type. In fact, he was most often deemed _too_ serious. But it was the way he liked things; calculated and organized. It seemed as though Margaret thought differently. John didn't think he minded though; an unusual warmth coursed through him at the thought that he could make her laugh at such a time.

"Is that so?" He asked coyly. Her laughing subsided, but her piercing gaze lingered. A gaze that made him feel undeniably warmer while his blood seemed to have thickened considerably, making his heart pump harder just to move it at all. Why was she staring at him like that? It made him feel completely exposed, while kindling something within him that had been buried so deep, he didn't even understand what it was. He felt as though he were completely at her mercy, throwing himself at her feet and praying, begging that she would hear him. And may God have mercy on him, he wanted nothing more than to pull her to him and kiss her with all the furious raging passion he had so successfully suppressed thus far. Seeing her like this was so…surreal. As though he might have fallen asleep and conjured this dream up somewhere in the recesses of his mind. John desperately needed to touch her, to make sure she was there. He could feel her weight against him at certain points, but it wasn't enough. He needed to feel her skin beneath his fingertips, to feel its softness, its temperature, just to be absolutely certain that this was reality. But he could not bring himself to do it. He desperately wanted to; but truthfully, he was afraid. Not only of the small remnants of his soul that she would surely take from him if he tried and failed, but also of succeeding. He understood in that moment that offering himself to Margaret initially was nothing. No, the real sacrifice was what frightened him. The real sacrifice was _actually_ giving himself to her day after day. If there ever was a relationship between Margaret and himself, he wanted them to be equals, giving and taking from each other in equal measure. He knew he could spend every day of the rest of his life giving her everything he had: home, wealth, status, mind, heart, _soul_…and he knew that if he did, there would be nothing left of the man he was now. A shell filled with possibilities and could-have-been's. Already his mental stability was balancing on a thread. The psychological stress of loving that accursed woman for months upon _months_, and receiving nothing in return had left him emptier than he could have imagined. But _marrying_ _her_ regardless, and watching her die before his very eyes knowing there was nothing he could do, nothing he had ever received from her that he could attach his sanity to was almost enough to make him snap. He was clever enough to know he probably was not collected enough to pass for the "normal" he had already been passing for, but he would not-no, he could not now give Margaret _anything_ without being certain that she held at least a sliver of affection for him. He now faced the seemingly insurmountable task of trying to make Margaret see him for who he really was (while he himself was not even sure), but without making himself vulnerable. He took a deep breath and broke eye contact with her, now desperately needing to change the thought patterns of his mind. "I cannot feel my arm." Margaret laughed openly again, her beautiful tinkling laugh, and he felt a little bit better about his task.

"Oh I _am_ sorry." She said, still quite breathless but genuinely concerned that she may have offended him. John found it utterly captivating and somewhat puzzling. "Truly I am not mocking you, but you are very amusing." She went back to staring at him for a few more moments before: "I would gladly move my head off your arm, but I'm afraid I cannot." Her tone spoke of mischief and he found himself captivated once more. He didn't understand, though. Didn't she despise him? Wasn't he responsible for her status? Was it possible that maybe-? No, he cut the thought off immediately before it completely formed.

"I do not understand." His words held so much more truth than Margaret was probably aware.

"Well you see," she stated, looking very much like a Greek temptress with the expression she was currently donning. "Because I have cut off the circulation to your arm, you are most likely unable to feel that your hand has become quite entangled in my hair. I am, at present, unable to move." Guilt coursed quickly through his body, making him wonder if he was perhaps pulling it. "Do not distress yourself John, it causes me no pain." There it was again; not only had she practically read his mind, she'd spoken his name. Every time it came from her lips, he lost a little of his self control to reckless abandon. Reckless abandon that valiantly attempted to convince him to take Margaret and-

"That does complicate things." Another statement that held more truth than she probably realized.

"You have quite and intimidating arm, Margaret. I must say I have never been hit so forcefully by a woman before. Actually," John paused, contemplating. "I don't think I have ever been slapped by a woman before." He watched, secretly delighted at the mortified blush that seemed to touch every crevice of her face, including her ears. She was so humiliated it seemed, that she resorted to covering her face with her hands. It took much coaxing from John to pry them away so that he could say what was next.

"Do not distress yourself Margaret." He began softly. "I very much deserved it." He knew immediately by the expression on her face that she was preparing to interrupt him with some misguided compliments he knew weren't true. So he cut her off before she had an opportunity to speak them. "And even if I hadn't, it speaks something of your character that I greatly admire." There it was, he had placed himself in the open. It probably wasn't as substantial as he felt it was, but it was all he could give. Now there was nothing he could do but wait for Margaret's reaction. Unfortunately, the _extremely_ untimely arrival of Carter prevented Margaret from responding to his attempt at….what _was_ he doing exactly? But before he could think of a phrase to adequately describe what he was attempting to accomplish, he followed Margaret's line of sight to the chaise lounge in the corner of the room. The chaise lounge where he had delicately lain their wedding clothes. The wedding clothes that he himself had removed from her body. While she was unconscious. She turned her head to look back at him then, her expression incredulous. For God's sake, had she really pieced it together that quickly! It couldn't be _that_ obvious, could it? He did not think he, much less Margaret, could handle the stress of such a conversation at the moment. So he valiantly attempting to distract her by gaining the attention of Carter, who still had not noticed them, and smiled softly to himself when he was successful.

* * *

A few hours later, John tentatively made his way down the stairs for the first time since he'd carried Margaret up them. They shared a pleasant, but quiet breakfast in bed together before he forcibly extricated himself from the sheets. He knew he could not stay there any longer than that without awkwardness and questions he wasn't prepared to answer, forcing themselves between this new found companionship they seemed to have attained. He was still incredibly tired, but there were business matters he desperately needed to attend to. He hadn't been to the Mill in a week now, nor had he taken the time to read a single scrap of business correspondence since the previous week. It wasn't exactly an ideal time to have temporarily abandoned the Mill. Things were becoming incredibly difficult where it was concerned. The strike had done substantially more damage than he originally anticipated. He expected it had done more than anyone anticipated. But where the other mill owners were riding out the rough business patch without very much hardship, he was staring the prospect of unemployment directly in the face. He had no capitol; he had only just invested it in new looms. A very wise business move at the time. In fact, it seemed his only poor judgment had been to indulge in the exorbitant expense of hiring Irish hands to forcibly break the strike. That was what John liked to think of as the nail in the proverbial coffin that was certain to be of Marlborough Mills. But it would not be said that he went down without a fight. He was distracted from his thoughts by the sound of his front door opening.

"Good morning, Mrs. Watson."

Fanny?

"Good morni-John!" She exclaimed the moment her eyes settled upon him.

"Fanny." He replied, tone quite surprised, but not to the level of exuberance his sister always possessed.

"John, what are doing down here?" she exclaimed, looking worryingly up the stairs. "Has something happened to Margaret, is she worse?" She approached the stairs not waiting for an answer from him, but he grasped her arm as she made to pass.

"What?" he asked, the confusion he felt surely evident on his face.

"Something _has _happened hasn't it? Oh please John, tell me she is not worse!" John stared at her open mouthed before he said in a somewhat distant tone:

"No, she is much improved. She woke yesterday-how did you know she was ill?" his question came out sharper than he intended.

"I was here yesterday morning." she stated simply.

"What?" He exclaimed, perplexed. "No you weren't." Fanny looked at him as though he sprouted another pair of eyebrows.

"John…" she spoke to him slowly, as though he might have suffered some kind of psychological trauma. In a way, he supposed he had. "I have been here every morning since you got married."

"What?" That seemed to be the only word he could speak. "I never saw you."

"Well you were a bit preoccupied with Margaret." She looked at him strangely. It was completely unnerving. "Now may I have my arm back so that I may visit my sister-in-law. I am very much looking forward to seeing her awake." She smiled pleasantly at him, but her face still bore traces of that unusual expression.

"I-um-she-" He stammered, still gaping at his sister. "Margaret is resting."

"No matter." She said cheerfully. "I will have to content myself with the reading I had originally planned." She had been reading to Margaret? How had he been completely unaware of her presence if she had been reading aloud? He must have been completely out of his senses. Fanny had only gone up the first few steps when he turned and quickly said:

"Fanny forgive me, I had no idea-" her small giggle cut him off.

"Relax John, you've caused me no offense." He felt himself relax a little, unaware until that moment how tense he had become. She made to continue towards his room, but turned and addressed him once more. "Mama sends you her love, and apologizes for being unable to join me." John scoffed. He still had not quite forgiven his mother. "Although she has said nothing to me," she continued. "I believe she feels that if she were to come here and see Margaret in her current state it would completely crumble her resolve to dislike her." John's eyes widened in disbelief. "Margaret is motherless after all, and no matter how much she denies it, Mama has enough motherly love inside of her that it would surely force her to forgive Margaret for taking you from her." And with Fanny's parting words left to linger in John's mind, she turned and disappeared up the staircase.

* * *

In the solitude of his office, John spent the next several hours forcing his thoughts to remain on his work, and not to stray towards the beautiful woman he had left in his bed. A sight he never dared to imagine, afraid it would cause him too much pain. She had fallen asleep after their unplanned breakfast, her head falling lightly against his shoulder, startling him from the book she had timidly asked him to read to her. It was with great reluctance that he dressed and finally departed from the room. Although he had to admit, his neglected business was not quite as terrible as he had originally feared. Williams-his over looker- had taken it upon himself to inform his suppliers and purchasers that his wife taken gravely ill with pneumonia, and to apologize for any delays or lack of correspondence. His books weren't as bad as he feared either. Although they still weren't making any profit since the strike, it appeared that they were now floating right above immediate danger. Perhaps they could continue to simply float along until the money from several orders came in. John sighed and scrubbed his hand down his face in exhaustion. It would be a very long, very tiresome few months he had to look forward to, and that was without the prospect of the troubles he had within his very home. His wife who had married him without choice, the people of Milton determined to scorn her, and his encompassing, terrifying, suffocating, sometimes completely insane, unrequited love for her. But there was one thing niggling in the back of his mind. One thing she had said to him that, against his will, gave him a tiny spark of hope. A spark that thrilled and terrified him more than he ever could have imagined.

"_You do not need to remind me that I made the decision to be your wife."_

* * *

Margaret woke slowly to the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Blinking in an attempt to clear her mind of its cloudiness, she thought it sounded familiar. "Fanny?" Her voice came out a little raspy, probably from the excessive sleeping, and Fanny immediately stopped reading.

"Oh Margaret!" She exclaimed, setting her book on the chair and quickly crossing the room to her side. "How are you feeling? I cannot tell you how pleased I was when John said you were better!" The fogginess in Margaret's mind must have been tampering with her ability to correctly process new information.

"It was not quite as bad as it has been made out to be Fanny, I'm sure." She said, slowly forcing herself to sit up. Fanny helped by propping some pillows up behind her, and Margaret smiled gratefully at her. She reached for the glass of water on the bedside table when Fanny spoke again.

"Having pneumonia and being unconscious for six days is just about as bad as it can get, Margaret. In fact I'd venture to say the only thing worse would be dying, which you did come awfully close to." Margaret, who at the time of Fanny's declaration had been taking a long desired gulp of water, unintentionally inhaled quite a bit of it, and began coughing violently. Fanny looked quite alarmed and began to pat her lightly on the back. "Goodness, Margaret!" She exclaimed when her coughing subsided. "You gave me such a fright!"

"Six days!" She cried, her voice raspy once more. "What do you mean six days!" Fanny looked quite startled. She sat back down in her chair, twisting her fingers.

"You-you didn't know?" she asked anxiously.

"I was unconscious for six days!"

"Well…" Fanny trailed off, seemingly uncertain how to respond to Margaret's reaction. "John didn't tell you?"

"No, John didn't tell me!" She suddenly found herself unreasonably angry with John. Why did he not tell her! It wasn't as though it was a meaningless piece of information. And where was he now? Why wasn't he here. Why was Fanny here? The amount of questions Margaret had were piling high, and her lack of understanding in the situation of growing.

"Margaret, you must calm yourself, you're still unwell-"

"I'm perfectly well, thank you Fanny." She snapped, but regretted it almost immediately. It wasn't Fanny's fault that she had no knowledge of her illness. "I'm sorry, Fanny." She said quietly. "I should not have lost my temper with you."

"It's quite alright, Margaret." she said, her cheerful manner returning almost immediately. "I think I would be quite upset myself." Her anger hadn't gone completely, but she made an active effort not to unleash it on Fanny again. Several minutes of awkward silence lapped between them until Fanny proclaimed. "I'm afraid that I must be off now. Goodbye Margaret."

"Goodbye Fanny," Margaret said kindly. "Thank you so much for being here to keep me company. Fanny smiled cheerfully at her, before leaving the room in a rustle of starched skirts. Margaret's thoughts then turned to John, and she found her anger had returned completely, bubbling angrily beneath the surface, and making Margaret restless. Since when did Margaret need looking after? She was a grown woman, she had taken care of her mother and their entire household before and after she died. Did he think she was suddenly incapable of caring for herself? True she had been sick, and was at that time, probably very incapable for caring for herself, and he almost certainly had been the one to do it. The thought of it made her feel a million things at once. But right at that moment, with John quietly closing the door and walking to the other side of the room without speaking to or looking at her, all Margaret could focus on was how very irritated she was.

"I did not need a caretaker John, and you did not need to inconvenience your poor sister by making her keep watch over me." She stated rather curtly. His back was turned towards her, but the sudden rigidity to his posture was unmistakable. He turned sharply on the spot, looked at her very intently, but said nothing. Eventually, he slowly began untying his cravat, still staring at her so intensely that she felt as though she might burst into flames.

"You are angry with me because my sister was here?" He said, tone betraying that he was somewhat amused, but his expression inscrutable. It only served to further irritate her.

"No, I am angry that you feel the need to inconvenience your sister with babysitting me all day long!" There was a somewhat mischievous look about his face as she spoke to him, and there was no denying that he was amused by the situation.

"Yes, I see." was all he replied. He turned away from her, setting his cravat gently on his dresser, before rolling up his sleeves. This was like nothing she had seen before. Margaret wondered again, if he somehow knew the intensity of what he could do to her just by this simple act. Even she didn't understand it. Suddenly she remembered she was supposed to be angry with him.

"I am not a child John." He turned around again, casting a lingering glance at the chaise lounge in the corner where their wedding clothes still lay, before settling his gaze on her.

"Yes Margaret," he said quite seriously, his gaze searing her once more. "Of that, I am completely aware." She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze before coming to her senses once more.

"You've been keeping something from me." She said, although it sounded unusually breathless. Was she imagining the way his eyes drifted back to the wedding clothes?

"Oh?" Was he…nervous?

"Why didn't you tell me I'd been unconscious for six days?" He sighed, not looking at her.

"I suppose it slipped my mind." He replied evasively.

"You understood this morning, didn't you, that I was not aware of how much time had passed?" John appeared to be struggling with something. "I understand your expression now that I know the rest of the story." Margaret saw his expression darken, and knew that she had upset him.

"You do not know the rest of the story Margaret, you were unconscious." his words were harsh, but Margaret did not understand why.

"Well I know enough." She countered. "Fanny told me-"

"Told you that you were unconscious for six days!" He snapped. "Nothing else!" Margaret's anger had disappeared, and was replaced by confusion. What had she said? Why was he suddenly so angry with her?

"I-I'm sorry." He scoffed.

"For What? You couldn't possibly know what to apologize for."

"Why will you not tell me?" Margaret cried. "Why did you not tell me to begin with? I do not understand!" She was on her feet before she realized that she had moved.

* * *

How could he possibly tell her what it was like for him in those days? How he had not slept nor eaten in days, how he spent every waking moment completely and utterly terrified that each breath she took would be her last. He could not. He had already decided that he could not give anymore of himself to her without reciprocation. He could not make himself vulnerable to her once again. The denial would be unbearable. So he opted to end this conversation before things were too out of control. There was no way that Margaret could know what was going through his mind, and why he could not speak of it.

"I am sorry that I did not tell you the severity of your illness when the subject arose earlier. I confess I was afraid the shock would be too much." He said. "It is true, you did have pneumonia, were unconscious for six days, and did come very close to dying. I had not slept for some time when you finally woke, and I was, and still am, somewhat delirious I think. I did not think it would be that important if I delayed in telling you."

"I am sorry for losing my temper with you." Margaret said sincerely. He smiled at her, suddenly feeling very mischievous again.

"Think no more of it, Margaret." He said cheerfully, walking towards her. "Now you must get more rest." He almost laughed aloud at the murderous expression on her face at his words, but managed to hold himself in check. Instead, he quickly bent down and scooped her up, ignoring her cries of protest. He carried her over to the bed and gently placed her back under the covers, his mind screaming at him to stop, that he would regret this. But he didn't care. Margaret's curiously unfathomable expression fueled this rather unorthodox attempt at chivalry. "Tomorrow, I will get you out of this house, one way or another." She smiled brightly at him, and before he realized what he was doing, he leaned down, and kissed her forehead, before turning, quickly blowing out the candles, and heading towards the door.

"John?" He heard her call tentatively. His heart stopped.

"Yes?" he asked, terrified.

"Will you sleep in here?" his heart was surely going to explode in anxiety. What should he say? Was she asking if he had planned on staying there with her? In all honesty, he had not planned on it. He did not want her to despise him anymore than she already did. But a small part of his mind whispered something else to him. Something that made him come alive. _What if she was asking him to stay with her?_ Taking an enormous leap of faith, he turned and answered:

"I will stay with you."

A/N: Holy freaking crap, that was a long one! Sorry it took me so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so long to get this one out to you. School has been just dreadful! Its always the busy part of the year. I'll be infinitely pleased when I graduate, and can put college behind me. Anyways, on to other things. Thanks so much for your wonderful and continued support. I can not tell you how happy it makes me that you are all so responsive to my updates, and that you love this story so much! I love this story a lot as well, so hearing praise from other people is what makes this entire hobby so completely desirable. Please feel free to continue to review! ;) I love hearing from you.

Also, some of you said that you would gladly look forward to reading anything else I wrote, so if you guys are interested, I'd love to tell you the idea's I'm thinking about, and see which one's you like the most. =D


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"Martha?" Margaret addressed the maid who was pinning her hair. Martha glanced up and caught her eye in the mirror. Margaret's gaze returned back to the reflection of the chaise lounge in the corner of the room, where it had been almost all morning. She had woken before John again, but had remained perfectly still and reveled in the unusual joy such a circumstance brought to her heart. Unlike the previous morning, this morning Margaret was filled with doubts and insecurities. The realization that they were married was sinking into her bones, and it made her feel curiously jittery whenever she thought about it. John's behavior was…puzzling to say the least, and she could not, try as she might, make it out. And then there were the wedding clothes, still draped haphazardly on the chaise lounge, untouched by all. There was some significance to this, and Margaret knew it. She could practically feel it. If her initial suspicion of them wasn't enough, she had noticed that John kept casting nervous glances in their direction nearly every time they were together. Her eyes had fallen upon them in her first moment of waking, thus causing her preexisting doubts to surface. In fact, her mind had been so uneasy that she remained perfectly still and quiet as she felt John stir beside her. He must have turned towards her, but her back was facing him so she could not be certain. He only stayed there a few minutes before rising, dressing, and leaving the room in stealth. But she did not see any of this; she closed her eyes, and did not open them until she was certain that he had left the room. When they opened again, they settled immediately on the chaise lounge. Why could she not shake the feeling that something was not altogether right with the way the clothes were settled? It wasn't something of great importance, surely. But she knew that there was _something _to do with those clothes, and she desperately wanted to know although she didn't completely understand why. It was as though they were pulling at her mind, filtering through her subconscious and trying to make her see…something.

"Yes, Mistress?" Martha replied, pulling Margaret from her thoughts. She felt nervous and somewhat embarrassed of what she was about to ask, even though it was a perfectly normal question under the circumstances. That didn't seem to stop the slight flush from warming her cheeks, however.

"Is there not somewhere more suitable for my wedding dress?" She felt her flush deepen as she spoke. "Well, what I mean to say is…" Her anxiety was coming out in her voice now, and she desperately hoped that Martha didn't notice. "Why do the wedding clothes remain on the chaise lounge?" Her question did not seem to faze Martha in the slightest, and she replied without hesitation. "The Master forbade us to remove them." Martha's reply only puzzled Margaret further. John had forbidden Martha from removing the clothes? Why? She opened her mouth to question Martha further, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Margaret?" John's voice called, muffled slightly by the door. Margaret nodded to Martha who had just finished her hair, and she opened the door for John, curtsied, and left without another word. Margaret stood, and turned to greet him.

"Good morning." She said cheerfully. There was something inexplicable about his presence that made her feel as though she had the sun contained within her. He smiled at her in a way that made her want to dance.

"I was coming to inquire if you were ready." He said, looking down at her with that boyish wonder once more.

"Indeed I am." She replied, practically bouncing with anticipation. "I am so ready feel the fresh air again, I do not believe I would have dressed properly if it wasn't for Martha." John chuckled slightly and offered her his arm, which she took eagerly, trying to ignore the racing nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach that always accompanied his touch. "So where are we going?"

"Out and about." He replied mysteriously, looking quite stern. "You're certain you're up for this?" He added, his sternness suddenly bearing down upon her.

"Of course I am." She replied forcefully. She was quite ready to breathe the fresh air once more. John placed his the back of his fingertips against her forehead once more, and Margaret could not help the sigh of partial exasperation that passed her lips.

"I'm sorry." John said quickly and dropped his hand, causing Margaret to feel slightly guilty. "I'm just making sure. That is to say, I would hate to be the cause of a relapse. I'm quite certain Dr. Donaldson would not approve of you going out of doors."

"It's alright, John." Margaret paused and looked up at him. "Thank you." He looked at her intently, something changing in his eyes, but turned and led her down the stairs before she could study it any further.

* * *

Margaret breathed deeply, the outside air rejuvenating her mind, and refreshing her body. It was still quite chilly outside, but she hardly noticed. She had hardly stirred out of doors for…well she supposed it must have been several weeks if she included the one she could not remember. She smiled, feeling unaccountably joyous, and turned to her escort.

"Oh this is wonderful!" She exclaimed. John glanced at her, his brows rising a little and his eyes containing the unusual sparkle of mischievousness once more. "Thank you for doing this for me."

"You're welcome, Margaret." He replied, before focusing on the road ahead of him. They walked for some time in a silence that, while companionable, had the slight tinge of awkwardness to it. The streets were busy, filled with shoppers and merchants alike, and many a surreptitious glance was cast in their direction. Margaret realized that this was the first time they had been together in public, if you discounted the walk home from Nicholas' house that had, ironically, put them in this situation in the first place. This was also the first time that Margaret had been back to this area of town since she had (quite literally) been thrown out, and was not something that she cared to think of very much. If ever she needed proof that her reputation had been shattered, that incident had cleared any doubts left lingering in her mind.

She found she could no longer bear the faces of the others in the busy market, and cast her gaze downward. Her reputation had been ruined completely, and John had married her regardless. Was his own reputation now diminished because of her. Did these people, who were so disgusted by her that they would not even accept her business, also feel that way about him? What if his business suffered from it? The lives and wellbeing of so many in Milton depended on the success of Marlborough Mills. Had she condemned those who worked for it when she married John? Surely he would have thought of everything, every possible positive and negative before asking her. It was who he was: a businessman, intelligent, hard-working, and _calculating_. She had been part of more than enough conversations with him to know that he was a very calculating man, who always thought of every possible aspect in any situation before making a decision or passing judgment. He would have thought of this, would he not? In truth, while John was a very calculating man, he had not thought of any such troubles that might affect his Mill before asking for Margaret's hand. There had been nothing on his mind but the guilt that still plagued him over Margaret's diminished respectability. Guilt that was still plaguing him at that very moment. In fact, he very much doubted he would ever cease to feel it. Especially now when (even though Margaret herself did not notice it), the people of Milton were obviously still so very disapproving.

Margaret may not have seen their disdainful looks, barely concealed pointing, and none too quiet whispering, but John certainly did.

They stopped suddenly, and Margaret looked around disoriented. But it only lasted a second before she realized where she was, and could not help the gasp, nor the laughter that followed, or even her own thoughtlessness as she threw her arms around her escort in a fleeting embrace, cried "Thank you, thank you!" and hurried up the stairs to Crampton, not even waiting to be properly admitted.

* * *

John did not believe he had ever been privy to a happier sight than the one before him. Of course, he had written to Mr. Hale as soon as Margaret had woken, and had later written saying that he would bring Margaret there to see him, but he had not expected to be so completely blown away by the sight before him. True, Mr. Hale had not seen Margaret since she had recovered from her illness, seeing as how the day previous was her first full day of consciousness, but there was such a feeling of acceptance, of love that seeming to be flowing from the walls and it warmed his heart. Margaret had practically thrown herself into her father's arms, and the two now shared tears of joy at being so happily reunited. Even Dixon was standing to the side, mopping her eyes with a handkerchief. It was not long before Mr. Hale beckoned to him.

"John, my boy." Something stirred within him then. Something that made him want to weep and laugh at the same time. And as Mr. Hale embraced him tightly and thanked him repeatedly in a broken voice, he felt his eyes burn and knew that Mr. Hale had forgiven him. Forgiven him for everything he had done, placed no blame on him in any way, and John had never felt such acceptance in his entire. He had not realized until that moment, how much he truly missed his own father, how much he craved that bond. He had filled his life with work, first to pay off the debts he inherited at his fathers death, then to raise himself and his family above and out of their situation. And it had made his life empty. He had not noticed it before, he was too busy working. He thought he had been happy, but now he knew that wasn't the case. He was content with his situation, having matured into the man he was in the midst of hardship. But it was not happiness. This…this acceptance from a man he had not known more than two years, this love, this woman by his side alive and breathing…_this _was happiness.

"Thank you, my son. You have brought my daughter back to me." And with these words, John was completely undone.

"I-I have done nothing-" But he could not finish his sentence. He was too overcome by his own emotions, voice breaking and then failing him entirely.

"You have done _everything_ for me, John." Too much, this was _too much_. He couldn't handle it; he didn't deserve this mans gratitude. He sat down in the nearest seat he could find, face uncomfortably wet, and his eyes burning. He shook his head. No, every problem Mr. Hale spoke of had been _caused_ by him, not resolved by him. His faltering reputation, his income (which had been nothing great to begin with) was now almost nonexistent. He had taken liberties of Margaret, placing them both where they were. He had caused Margaret so much distress, which eventually led to her illness-for God's sake, he'd nearly killed with his words and indecision alone! Now they were married, her father left alone in this house after John had taken his daughter from him, and he was…thanking him? Claiming him as his son? No, he did not deserve this from him-from anyone. He could not accept it, even if he wanted to his own mind wouldn't allow it. Even now he could feel his mind rejecting the words, while his heart traitorously begged for more and poured emotions into his being that he never knew he had.

"No-" He tried again.

"You cared for my dying wife when I could not, befriended me, employed me, sought out this house for me when we were strangers…you spared my daughter from scandal, took her as your wife and asked for nothing in return, and now you have saved her from death. Yes, I would tell you there is nothing I could ever do to repay what you have willingly given to me, and I thank God that I have the honor of knowing you."

John could not control the tremble of his fingers, the way his heart longed for this, or the way his mind rejected it. He was too cynical, he knew that. And it was his cynicism that spoke his next words.

"You do me too much justice; I believe that Dr. Donaldson owns the right to claim keeping Margaret from death."

"Nonsense!" Mr. Hale said, laughing slightly. "Dr. Donaldson didn't spend six sleepless nights by her side, offering her words of comfort." John looked at him incredulously. How could he possibly have known? Mr. Hale must have noticed his change of expression, for he added: "I was by your side more than you are probably aware. If there was any doubts in my mind of your-" But a knock followed by the entry of both Dixon and Margaret, one carrying a tray of tea, and the other holding a plate of biscuits. He had completely forgotten Margaret and Dixon were even there, let alone notice that they had left the room at some point. He wondered when it had been. He looked at Margaret, catching her eye for only a moment before she turned away from him to set her tray on the table.

He suddenly understood her unusual expression as she entered the room, and hastily scrubbed his hands down his face, ridding it of any traces of wetness. There was nothing he could do for the redness of his eyes however, and when Margaret brought him a cup of tea he could not bring himself to meet her gaze. All he could think of was how very much he did not deserve the kindness of either Hale (even though Margaret was now Thornton), and how incredibly stupid he must look. He was not normally self conscious, but the idea of appearing so out of control, on top of everything else that had happened to him in the last half hour, was more than he could bear. He did what he could to avoid the direct gaze of anyone person.

That was, until Margaret sat down next to him and placed her hand on top of his in a silent gesture of support.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry its not very long, and that you had to wait foooooooorrrreeeeevvvvveeeeerrrrr for it. But School is out, finals are done, and now I can do more writing! Heads up guys, we're getting to the good stuff. And please keep reviewing and telling me what you think, even if you don't like it. I love your reviews, and holy mother of pearl, we're almost at 300! =D

Also, I would just like to compliment everyone, even those who do not review on being awesome enough to read my story. When I first started writing I was averaging 1500 views per month. Last month I topped out at 12,522 views! So, I love you =D


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Before reading this, I HIGHLY recommend getting on you tube and turning on Moonlight Sonata. Not just any version. This version: http /nT7_IZPHHb0

Obviously, get rid of the spaces. When it starts playing, start reading. I swear, it's like emotional overload. Its what I listened to the entire time I wrote this chapter.

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

The trip back from Crampton was very silent. For his part, John could think of nothing to say. There were so many things swimming around in his head he couldn't be certain what to make of any of them. His mind, his body, his heart, his very soul, seemed to be at war with each other. Each part wanting something that another part refused to be a part of. It was this battle which kept him silent. They had stayed much later at Crampton than he had originally planned, eventually dining there before bidding Margaret's father a very late goodnight. He was so tired. He was starting to believe that he would never feel rested again in his entire life. Those days without sleep had exhausted him more than he realized, and he was not ashamed to admit how very much he was looking forward to the prospect of his warm bed. He glanced quickly over at Margaret, noticing that she was already looking at him with that unfathomable expression that seemed to grace her features more than ever before. He wondered what it meant, what emotion it signified, or what thoughts it betrayed. Perhaps one day he might know, might understand…but for now it left him invariably curious.

"What are you thinking of?" He found himself asking quietly, before turning his attention back to the deserted street.

"Well-I-um…" Margaret stuttered before trailing off. John assumed that she was not expecting such a direct, if not personal question from him. "You, actually. I was thinking about you." John stopped quite abruptly in the street. Of course, with Margaret's arm through his own, she stopped with him. He turned to face her, mind burning with a million questions, heart feeling a million emotions at once.

"What?" He asked bluntly. She was thinking about him.

"You asked me what I was thinking about; I was thinking about you." She spoke quietly, but determinedly, as though she were trying to give herself strength.

"What of me?" He asked, cursing his continued bluntness. He searched her eyes, begging for some sort of response, but non came. She just looked at him with that unfathomable expression, baring him from seeing whatever true thoughts and emotions lay beneath. It could not hide the blush that tainted her cheeks, but that in itself only confused him further.

"You did not sleep for six days?" Her eyes seemed to beg him for understanding, for answers, but he could not give one. It wasn't necessarily something he felt like talking about. How did she even find out? He could not answer her, but she had asked him outright. He would have to answer eventually. He knew her well enough to know that she would only ask again. If he refused, she would ask someone else. Why he did not want her to know, or why he would not tell her himself was something he could not explain. But he knew it was true. He hadn't wanted her to find out, but it seemed she had. He turned back to the street, and continued walking. If he was to discuss such things, it would not be in the middle of the street. Margaret must have assumed he had ignored her question, which was true in a way. He never made a reply, but continued walking. It wasn't until they had reached the house, and retired to the sitting room that she broached the subject once more.

"Is it true?" she asked as he walked over to the fireplace, resting his arm on the mantle. He did not need to inquire as to what she was asking. He already knew.

"No." He said. His tone was cold, somewhat unfeeling, but he did not know why.

"But my father-" Margaret began, but he cut her off abruptly, knowing once more what she would say before she said it.

"It was five days, not six." Margaret stood somewhere off to his left, but he was resolutely studying the mantle in front of him, not wanting to look at her face. There was silence in the room. A heavy silence, weighted with many questions and emotions, but John would not give in.

"You did not sleep for five days?" She asked, her tone curiously void of defining emotion. Oh how he wished he could just disappear and reappear at a later time. He really did not want to talk about it. It was a memory; a horrible, terrifying memory that he could bury in the recesses of his mind and never think of again, if only Margaret would stop talking about it. Why did she want to know? What did it matter? He glanced over at her, not giving himself enough time to take in her face or her eyes, but hoped it would be acknowledgment enough. She took a hesitant step toward him. "You nursed me back to health?"

John suddenly felt very agitated. He could no longer just stand there, and abruptly turned away from her, pacing in very small circles. "You stayed by my side for six days?" She asked him. He paused his pacing, and looked at her, emotion burning intense inside of him. She did not turn from him as he expected. No, she stepped closer one more step. Her expression gave nothing away, and had not wavered from the unfathomable look it had been portraying for some time now. He turned away from her again, still pacing, but moving further away. This did not seem to deter her in any way, and she continued with her questioning. _What was she doing? _

"You found me unconscious in my father's home," she stated. "And carried me to my room." She was coming toward him faster now, taking larger strides, and he felt himself backing away, unexplainable emotions coursing through him. "You brought me away from the rioters, carried me inside to safety." He did not understand, he could not think. His heart was working too hard, anxiety ripping through him. His back touched the wall behind him. "You married me, saved me from destitution." She was too close, much too close. He felt trapped, his back (literally) against the wall. She had cornered him, much like a dog in a cage, and he could do nothing. There was no where for him to go, and it frightened him. "You undressed me on our wedding night." His heart seemingly leapt into his throat. God, she knew, she knew about that! What would he say? Was this why she had cornered him? Did she know how much he avoided that topic, how he in all likelihood would have ignored her questions regarding that night, and sought to trap him in the sitting room and demand answers out of him? He could not answer her. His mind was working too fast, and heart beating too wildly. It seemed as though communication had failed him. It did not stop Margaret, who was now standing directly in front of him, gazing up into his eyes with a burning intensity that made him want to die. He was frozen, transfixed by the look in her eyes that he could not explain. He could not look away, even though he wanted to. He could not move even though he wanted to. He was completely helpless. "And you told my father that you did not want to marry me." God, how he wanted to escape this situation, to run out of this room and not look back. But he could not. "Why?"

Her question seemed to echo in his mind. It was one question, with a thousand others attached to it. It was the foundation of their relationship, the foundation of their very marriage. _Why?_ Why couldn't he move, why couldn't he think, why was Margaret here, why had he married her, why had she married _him_? Why did he show her (in not so many words) that he loathed her very existence, why was her father so unwaveringly kind to him? Why did he love her as much as he did, why could she not love him in return, why did she shield him from the rioters, why did she lie to him? Why was she so very close to him right now and why was he so very terrified about it?

"I do not understand you." She said, gaze burning him with its intensity while her voice was oddly breathless. "I do not believe I ever will. But I would like to know why." His voice, when he located it, sounded unusually strangled.

"Why what?"

"Why am I here?" The words that followed were spoken seemingly without his knowledge. A question to answer a question.

"Why did you marry me?" He waited, transfixed upon her eyes with horror, dreading what her reply would be, dreading that he had gone too far. She stared at him for several long moments before answering.

"Because you asked me to."

He didn't understand what that statement meant, and understood her meaning behind it even less. He didn't understand her expression, or the significance of the questions she had asked, but he did understand one thing. One thing that guided everything that followed. The one thing that had been determining all of this actions for months. The one thing that he knew with his soul: that he loved this woman more than he could ever make her understand. That was the answer to all her questions. It was the defining reason that drove every decision that caused every action she did not understand. And he could answer that question, easily. All it took was three words. Three small, one syllable, seemingly insignificant words. But his voice had failed him again, and he could not speak, still frozen by the woman herself, trapped by her overwhelming presence, and her untimely questions. He needed her to understand, to see what he saw, to feel how he felt, but he _couldn't_. He was desperate to make her see, to get away from her and just _breathe_, to somehow feel less than he was feeling right then. Perhaps it was desperation that drove him then, perhaps it was something more. But he did not know. In fact, he did not understand what he was doing until after he had already crashed his body against hers, kissing her with all the fiery passion of the emotions still warring inside of him.

* * *

A/N: Alrighty, another chapter! Even though it isn't very long, haha. Updating will obviously (well, hopefully anyway) be happening more often then it has been now that the semester is over, and I'm free for the whole summer! Yay! So before we get to the good stuff, let me just make a few rather important notes here about the story so far, because I don't think I made it entirely clear in my writing, and for that I apologize.

**Melissa72** asked a great question: Why is John refusing to remove the wedding clothes? There isn't an easy answer that I can give at this point. There are several contributing factors, some that I can explain, some that I can not. I'm sure you have noticed (after all, I haven't really been hiding it), that John's thoughts and actions, specifically words spoken (or sometimes not spoken), are turning…well, darker I suppose. He can barely control his emotions, something that is completely out of character for him. Things are scattered around in his brain, and he can't make sense of them. I didn't place too much emphasis on this, (I hoped that you might pick up on it without me), but in the last chapter specifically, there are things he knows, things he wants more than anything else in the world, and they're right there in front of him, simply waiting to be claimed. His heart will accept them, but his mind cannot. This is important. No, I will not tell you why, you will understand it on your own very, very, very soon. It's important for you to understand the spiraling chaos in his mind. That's why things feel….dark, and overly emotional when I'm writing John's perspective. That why he lost control while Mr. Hale was talking to him. No, crying like a little boy is generally very "not John". But I promise, you will understand. I'm not just throwing in random nonsense.

And this is precisely why I cannot answer the riddle of the wedding dress just yet. But again, you will understand soon. It is not John's attempt to force himself to tell Margaret what he did, but that is a good guess. ;)

As I'm sure you're aware, seeing as how I've been mentioning this from…I don't know, maybe fifteen chapters ago, things are reaching a climax. Building slowly, yes, but the time is coming.

To guest Beka: I always try to write things with as much subtle humor as I can ;) it's makes reading more of an adventure in my opinion.

To guest PS: No sudden happily ever afters here. You're in for the long haul ;)

To everyone else, you are so wonderful and amazing that you probably cant even comprehend it on your own. Let me just say I love all of your reviews, and am so outrageously grateful for the everlasting support and praise you have given me since I started this story. When the time does come, I will be sad to see this one go because your company has meant the world to me.

I love you all! :D


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Margaret had known he would not answer her. She knew from the moment she first thought of questioning him. He did not like to speak about the time that Margaret was ill. It hadn't taken her very long to figure that out. She understood completely when she asked him why he hadn't told her she was unconscious for six days. There was a look in his eyes, an unusual expression on his face, not to mention the barely concealed outrage in his voice, that spoke more to Margaret than John ever would. She realized that she had come to understand John quite well over the two years she had known him. Well, it was more his expressions, his tone of voice she could understand. Not necessarily him. _Him_ she did not really understand at all. Everything he did contradicted itself. The man himself was a walking contradiction. Everything she had ever thought she knew about him seemed to be incorrect. He was not what he appeared, he never had been, and Margaret began to wonder if he ever would be. Perhaps she would never fully understand him. She could accept that with ease, but there were some things she just wanted to know. She wanted to understand why he had done what he had for her. Why _had_ he married her? What drove him to take back his initial rejection of marrying her. She had several guesses, even some hopeful fantasies, but she needed to know for certain. A part of Margaret truly believed that if she knew why he changed his mind, then they could continue to build a relationship to whatever end based around it. If the answer was that he felt it was his duty, then she would spend eternity showing him her gratitude. If it was out of respect for her father, then she would make certain their relationship would not suffer for any reason because of her, while spending eternity showing him her gratitude.

She was startled from her thoughts when John removed the shall from her shoulders and handed it to the butler, whose name she had yet to learn. Margaret had not even realized that they were home, letting John lead her the entire way. The unusual anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach sparked to life as his fingers brushed her shoulder, and she tried to see his face. But it seemed as though he were trying to keep her from looking at it, and she was left following him into the sitting room. Once he had closed the door, he walked over to the fireplace and lay his arm on it. He looked tired; very tired. But Margaret assumed it was a combination of the lack of sleep, and the exhaustion of being out all day…not to mention whatever it was that had happened between John and her father.

_Once she heard John's voice breaking, as he tried to convince her father that he had done nothing for her, she knew she should leave. She and Dixon had gone to make some tea, both silently hoping (for the men's sake more than their own) that everything would be settled. When the tea was ready, Margaret carried it up, leaving only a few minutes before Dixon. It was exactly enough time for her to hear her father speak:_

"_Nonsense! It wasn't Dr. Donaldson who spent six sleepless nights by her side, offering her words of comfort." Her body had froze, hand still poised to knock, as her mind processed this information. But Dixon arrived before she heard anything else that was spoken. Her eyes immediately sought John's as she entered the room, and she felt as though her heart had stopped. His eyes held a desperation she had never seen before, his face soaked with tears. She'd never seen him cry before. The only time she had come close to it was when she vehemently rejected his proposal, and even then she couldn't be sure that's what it was. But he had looked away and said nothing else for the duration of their stay. Even when she spoke to him directly. _

Even now he was silent, and she could not understand why. It was driving her insane. She had to know, she needed to know what he was thinking, how he was feeling. She could have waited for a better time to bring such difficult subjects up between them, but she didn't want to. She was tired of not knowing. She wanted to move forward, in whatever way was possible. So she would bring them forward, even if he didn't want to.

"Is it true?" Margaret asked him, her tone surprisingly confident though it was nothing of how she truly felt.

"No." he replied, his tone uncharacteristically cold and harsh. Perhaps he suspected what she was doing, or perhaps the subject was more painful to him than she originally thought. But she couldn't stop now, she had just started. She was determined to see it through completely.

"But my father-" she didn't get a chance to finish however, because he cut her off rather abruptly.

"It was five days, not six." Although his tone belied a force that was not to be tempted, his response encouraged her. It gave her the courage to continue. And as the nervous anxiety that always accompanied close company with John grew within her, burning a path of raging nerves throughout her body, she felt she might need all the courage she could get.

"You did not sleep for five days?" She asked him, entirely baffled. Margaret could not imagine going without sleep for five days. Everything suddenly clicked into place for her. His unusual appearance when she first woke up, the way he clung to her as though he would never see her again, the clutter about the bedroom, the servants' reaction to seeing her awake, his behavior the day before, the…wedding clothes! He had forbidden anyone from touching them, and had not left her side since their vows. That was why he kept staring at them when he thought she wouldn't notice. Why he was always nervous when they were brought up.

He had undressed her.

He had undressed her, and was afraid that she would find out.

Why would he leave them in plain sight then? It was their unusual presence on the chaise lounge that made her suspicious in the first place. She did not understand. He undressed her, set their clothes on the chaise lounge, and then what? Sat in a chair at her bedside for six days? He glanced very quickly in her direction, though not long enough for her to see his face, and she knew that he was extremely uncomfortable. "You nursed me back to health?" This time he did not look at her, but began wringing his hands, something Margaret had never seen him do before. It didn't settle well in her stomach. He turned away from her suddenly, and began walking very quickly in small circles, something else she had never witness him do either. He seemed so agitated over this topic and she briefly considered stopping and letting him calm down. It was unnerving how…ill at ease he was. She had never seen him with so little confidence. But even though part of her wanted to stop, she knew she could not. She was too far in already, and she desperately needed to know _why_. "You stayed by my side for six days?" She asked.

He stopped, and looked at her directly for the first time since she'd interrupted the talk he was having with her father. Her breath caught at the sight of him. His gaze was so penetrating, so piercing, more than it ever had been, and she found herself wanting to step back and away from the searing intensity of his eyes. There was a thousand different thoughts in those eyes, simmering lowly, but not lacking passion. She took another step towards him. He turned from her again, taking several steps away, but continuing his agitated pacing. "You found me unconscious in my fathers home," she continued, her voice growing in strength as she neared him. "And carried me to my room." Margaret continued towards him, but he was taking identical steps backwards and away from her. Refusing to let herself be hurt over this she continued:

"You brought me away from the rioters, carried me to safety." He stopped walking, and Margaret realized that he was trapped by the wall behind him. He must have noticed this as well, if the rigidity of his posture was anything to judge by. "You married me, saved me from destitution." In every sense of propriety, she should not have been so close to him. She could feel the tension radiating off him in waved, but it mirrored her own, and she would not stop now. "You undressed me on our wedding night." He was burning her with his look alone, and she stared, completely transfixed by the sight of him. Her heart pounded in her chest. "And you told my father that you did not want to marry me." Anxiety running full force through her body, she asked him the one question she desperately needed answered. The only missing piece of the puzzle. The question that she prayed held the answers to every mystery in their life. "Why?"

Several minutes passed where there was no communication between them. Nothing but his searing gaze and unreadable expression that made her feel a million emotions at once. "I do not understand you." She said after nearly five minutes of silence lapsed between them. Her voice had become seemed to have lost its confidence, and came out exactly as breathless as she currently felt. "I do not believe I ever will. But I would like to know why." His gaze, eternally unwavering, never shifted in its penetrating intensity as he finally replied:

"Why what?" Even his voice held more intensity than usual. It was deeper, heavier somehow. As though his very tone tried to tell her the secrets he kept buried within.

"Why am I here?" She hated how desperate, how pleading it sounded on her ears, but there was nothing to be done about it now. She had spoken the words and could only wait for his reply.

"Why did you marry me?" Margaret could see the wisdom in his reply, even while it frustrated her. Why did he have to be so cryptic? Could he not just tell her, would he make her guess it? Or was he simply not wishing to be the one who put his emotions on the line, and was forcing her to do it first? Her reply, when it came, was just as cryptic as his. Answering the question entirely while giving nothing away.

"Because you asked me to." Something changed in his expression then, first in his eyes, then in his face. Something that Margaret could not identify. Something that thrilled her while it frightened her. But she could not look away, not now. She was afraid this chance might never come again. She was thinking of a way to ask him again when he moved. It was so completely sudden, so entirely unexpected, that she gasped, sucking in as much air as possible in a feeble attempt to calm her riotous heart. In one swift movement he had put one hand on her waist, the other on her neck, pulled her body as close as humanly possible with his own, before crashing his lips to hers.

Margaret had know, oh yes she had known, that John was a passionate person. This was setting new boundary levels though, even for him. She could feel him against her, his chest expanding as rapidly as his current occupation would allow, his hands at both her waist and neck, gripping her so tightly, as though she might vanish if he let go. She could feel his heartbeat under her fingers, as sporadic and nonsensical as her own. But there was more than just that. She could still feel the tension coming off him in waves, feel it beneath her hands from where they rested on his chest. She could feel the desperation with his hands, and the despondency with his mouth, and she did not understand. In fact, she was more confused than ever before. But suddenly his hands were on her face, forcing her away from him. She opened her eyes (unaware that they had closed), wanting to see into his own. Wanting to see the joy, the euphoria, and rapture that she felt reflected back at her. But John's eyes were closed, brow furrowed, looking very much hurt and betrayed, and her own heart sank more than she was willing to admit.

"John?" She found herself asking, although her voice was quiet. But he would not respond, and it wasn't much longer afterwards that he shook his head, and walked straight out of the room without looking back once, leaving Margaret more alone than she ever had been before.

* * *

A.N: Holy inspiration, two chapters in one day! I probably could have just made this and the last one an average sized chapter rather than two unusually short ones, but oh well, too late now. So….tell me what you think, yeah?

Also, I would love to hear both your speculations on whats going to happen next, and what you want to happen next =D I can't wait.

And Tiffany! You're my 300th reviewer! Weren't you also my 200th? Lol

I love you guys! =D


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Margaret hesitated before following him out of the room, her mind reeling with the events of the previous ten minutes. It seemed impossible that so very much could happen in so little time. But indeed it had happened, and not how she expected. There was only one thing left to do.

She needed to find out why.

She found him in their bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, with his head in his hands, supported only by his elbows that were resting on his knees. He did not move as she entered, and she approached him timidly. He must have known she was there; her skirts were rustling far too much for it to go unnoticed. Nevertheless, when she touched his arm he jumped slightly as though burned.

"Please Margaret." He had said to her. "Let me be alone with my thoughts." And he had left the room and not returned until long after she had gone to bed.

At least, she assumed that's what had happened. Shortly after his departure, she got into bed and cried herself to sleep. When she woke (albeit much earlier than she normally would), she was alone in bed, but under the covers and in her chemise. Even if there would have been any doubt in her mind as to who had undressed her, the side of the bed he slept on was disturbed, and he had placed the dress she was wearing along side her wedding dress. It wasn't very hard to put the pieces together. But she had done as he had asked, and left him to his thoughts. It didn't stop her from being angry with him. Angry for avoiding her, angry for being so everlastingly confusing…angry for kissing her like that.

Not that she regretted it of course. No, she had very much enjoyed it. But there was more going on in John's mind than she could understand. Perhaps two months ago a kiss like that could have solved everything between them. One seemingly insignificant reckless abandon, such as was shown on that night, would have led invariably to their happily ever after. But something was different between them. And there was something about being ignored by John that always seemed to touch a nerve. Even months ago after she cruelly rejected his proposal, and she had deserved being ignored, it always upset her; only then she was overwhelmed by the guilt of her lie.

Perhaps one day, when John wasn't so very angry with her, she could finally tell him about Frederick. Her father had shown her a letter from her brother (come so very, very late), that announced he was safely back home in Spain. Perhaps now Margaret could tell him of that night at the train station, without putting either person at risk, and he might forgive her. At the very least he might be understanding of her reasoning.

But that was before their argument the night Margaret sought him out in a desperate hope of fixing whatever lay broken between them.

Calling up some of the determination she miraculously procured to confront him, Margaret went to find him after he came storming in from the mill one evening. He wasn't very hard to locate. After all, aside from the servants, they were the only two people in the house. And John seemed to making a lot of noise. The distinct tones of miscellaneous items crashing to the floor was unmistakable. Margaret paused for only a moment outside the door to their bedroom, a small amount of fear settling in her stomach as she listened.

Her assumptions proved to be correct: there was a collection of items littering the floor, some broken some shattered beyond repair. And there was John, pacing furiously in small circles again, pausing only to find something to throw. He didn't notice her, or if he did he said nothing of it. Margaret inched her way into the bedroom, closing the door silently behind her, and stared at him incredulously. This was a John unlike anything she had ever seen, and it frightened her. Not because of his anger, his intensifying need to destroy everything in sight, or even because she was afraid he might run out of things to smash and turn on her. No, it was the look in his eyes that frightened her. It was as though he were another man, for he was not himself. John was nothing like this. He was controlled, well-tempered, and always (sometimes brutally) honest. The more she thought about it, the more Margaret realized that he had not been himself for some time. He was completely different from the man she had married less than a month ago. Something had changed greatly within him since then, but Margaret did not know what. She could speculate, but she did not want to. She was frightened enough as it was.

"John?" she asked timidly, stepping around the broken ornaments so that she might be nearer to him. He turned sharply at the sound of her voice, and fixed her with a piercing scowl.

"Go away Margaret." He said, his tone barely disguising how truly irritated he probably was to have been interrupted. He paid her no more attention, and instead resumed his pacing. Many emotions surfaced within Margaret at his statement, but anger seemed to be the most prevalent. And she had been away long enough at his request.

"No." Her voice was calm again, but Margaret knew he would not mistake her anger, nor her defiance. He turned toward her again, and closed the distance between them with three large steps, not caring for the objects he strode on as he came.

"Leave me be." he said, his voice warning her of his impending wrath. But even as he loomed over her, entirely more intimidating and frightening than he had ever been to her, she cared nothing for his anger. She herself was quite angry with what occurred (or more accurately _not_ occurred) between them. And she wanted to know why. About everything. Especially that kiss. She deserved to know why. After all, if she had kissed him…quite like that…and left without a word or a backward glance, he would be asking her why, she was certain. Because that wasn't something you did for no reason. At least, it wasn't something _she_ would do with no reason.

"I will not." Came her reply. He made to move around her, perhaps towards the door, but Margaret stepped in front of him. "Even if you did leave, I would follow you." He was seething, she could see it on his face. She did not understand it.

"What do you want?" He snapped at her.

"I want to know why."

"Why what!" Margaret's temper was rising, and it wasn't hard to sense that John's was as well. She willed herself to have patience, but she could already tell that it wouldn't last very long.

"I think you know what."

"I do?" John replied, his voice dripping with disdain. "Please, do enlighten me, I think I must have forgotten." Margaret's eyes narrowed, and she took a step closer to him, all attempts at patience vanishing.

"I am not insulting _you_, John." She replied, her tone gaining a distinctive edge to it. "I am merely trying to understand you. Something I find to be quite challenging, since it would seem you are determined to do things that make absolutely no sense whatsoever."

"My actions are completely sound and justifiable."

"_You_ are the only person who understands them!"

"Just because _you_ do not understand my actions-" Margaret's temper burst into flames at the condescension in his voice, and she cut him off.

"Oh, I suppose it is because I am a woman, that I cannot comprehend a man's struggles? Or that, as a southerner, I must know nothing of the trials and hardship of life? Do not patronize me, John!"

"For God's sake, Margaret! I said no such thing!"

"Didn't you?" She challenged.

"Are you so determined to see the ways in which I've wronged you, that you cannot see anything else?"

"You will not let me see anything else! You cannot even bear two minutes in the same room with me John, you have left nothing else for me _to_ see!" John said nothing, but approached her. Closer and closer he came, until Margaret could feel the anger radiating off his body in the mere two inches of space between them. As he bent his head, bringing his lips dangerously close to her own, she suddenly felt overwhelmingly apprehensive. But instead of kissing her (as she very much thought he was about to do), he leaned in next to her ear, so close to her that she could feel the warmth of his face and breath as he spoke.

"Follow me all you like Margaret, but I will not speak to you right now." A pang of despair shot through her as he straightened, his expression eloquently phrasing the disgust of which he was refusing to speak of. But she had been rendered speechless by his actions, and could think of nothing to say back in reply. And so when he grasped her upper arms and painfully pushed her aside before leaving with room with no more than the resounding echo of the door he slammed behind him, Margaret remained frozen in place but called out in anger:

"You will not speak to me at all!" But bore no sign of having been affected by his words save for the tears upon her face.

* * *

Things only decayed from that point. Margaret would be lying if she said she understood why. But on that account, she had as much luck in discovering his feelings as she had the first night. She desperately wished he would just tell her. Perhaps she had wronged him in some way, had deeply offended him and need only to beg for his forgiveness. Perhaps that was why he had refused to speak to her for nearly eight months.

Eight months.

The first few days of it had been bearable, only because Margaret had been so angry with him. She could handle the blatant cold-shoulder, the stern looks, the tension in his body in the few minutes she might see him in a day, because she had not wanted to see him very much anyway. But soon her anger died down, and she grew worried. Worried that something truly and wholly irreparable had been done. When it faded completely she knew, with all of her heart, that they were trapped somewhere without hope. There was nothing she could do. She tried-desperately-draw him out, to speak to him, about _anything_. But it always ended with the same result: silence, before he left her presence all together.

She had resigned herself to this. In the relatively short time they had been married, she had caused some great source of distress within him, that disturbed him so much he could not even look upon her face. And now, when he sent her away, rejected her as she rejected him, she understood completely why he loathed her to the extent he did. And the pain of it, of having him look at her with so much disdain, only intensified as time progressed. Eventually Margaret found herself not wanting to be around him anymore than he wanted to be around her. She had never felt so disliked in her entire life. The one comfort she had, the one bit of peace she could claim as her own was the occasional visit to the Higgins home to see Mary, the Boucher children, and if she were lucky sometimes she got to see Nicholas as well. She got the distinct impression that John did not care for her to venture out on her own away from the Mill, but since he would not bother to speak to her unless absolutely necessary, she would not bother him with the trivial details of her day to day life. In her mind, she rationalized that if he wanted to know where she was going, or did not approve of something she was doing, he need only open his mouth and say it…

Sometimes she liked to pretend that the reason he disapproved of her wandering about town was because the people of Milton still greatly disliked her, and that it was his own way of protecting her. But it was nonsense. She could get through town easily enough without John and his impenetrable reputation. It was obvious his reputation had done nothing good for her anyway. No, Margaret was still very much scorned upon, and disapproved of by the upper-crust society. And it suited her very well. All she had to do was dress herself down, place a shall around her head, and keep her head down if ever she went anywhere. Usually the only place she ever went was to the Princeton District, and in those areas the people were much more gracious in accepting her, especially when she dressed as they did.

Margaret never spoke of the finer aspects of her marriage to anyone, but she often felt as thought Nicholas already knew. He was unnervingly observant, and had and incredibly keen sense of judgment. He never asked her about her husband, nor did he ever mention him or the Mill in conversation if it could be helped. And to Margaret, his lack of curiosity spoke volumes of his awareness. But whatever his opinion in the matter, he never spoke a word of it to her, nor did anyone else in the Higgins house. Which was fine with Margaret, really. This was her own battle to fight. It was her marriage to fight for. And she had not given up on it yet, though sometimes she truly wished she could. She made a promise on their wedding night. A promise to herself, and a promise to God, that she would be what John wanted her to be, what John needed her to be. And even though she could not know what he wanted her to be since he would not speak to her, what he obviously needed was distance. Distance between them. Something that she could easily give, no matter how much it pained her. But now it seemed as though she could not reclaim the distance. Too long had passed with too much space. It seemed truly hopeless now, eight months later.

There was another unfortunate effect their marriage had on Margaret that she was loathe to admit: she was undeniably bitter. She had never known bitterness before, and did not like the extent to which it held her. But neither could she break free from it. She hated herself for hating John. She did not want to, but she could not help it. It had dug into the recesses of her heart, burying itself as deeply as it could. Bitterness and hatred. Perhaps she was turning into a proper Mrs. Thornton after all. It was no secret that John's mother did not like her, and still had yet to come back to her own house, although she did visit occasionally with Fanny.

Fanny was something entirely different. Margaret did not know what sort of change had occurred within her, or where it started, but she was very glad of the little time she got to spend with her sister-in-law. Fanny was not as secret about her knowledge of John's unusual behavior as Nicholas Higgins was, but she was never directly rude to him, nor even say very much when he was in the room. That is, if he was in the room at all, which he hardly ever was. But she did make the occasional remark of his character that could be deemed…less than courteous.

Although Margaret was eaten alive with her own bitterness and hatred at the man she now claimed as husband, she could not deny her love for him. It was a constant source of sadness for her. Oftentimes, she found herself so thoroughly depressed by her own marriage that she would not leave their room. Because in their room, she could pretend everything was well. She could pretend that they had a normal loving relationship. She could bury her face in his pillow and feel his desperate kiss upon her lips once more…but it was not to be. As she rolled over and looked at the rumpled pillow where his head had been only a few hours before, she felt anger rise up in her again.

Why did he even sleep there anymore? Why had he not banished her to her own room? Eight months he had not spoken a word to her, and yet insisted on sleeping by her side? It made no sense. She wasn't even his wife yet, not in the proper sense anyway. He had yet to claim that right. If he had already claimed her, she might understand why he kept her in his bed. But he had not. He had not made a single advance on her in any way. In fact, he had not intentionally touched her since the night they visited her father. Eight months ago. There were many times where Margaret woke in a tangle of limbs, pressed completely against him, and a few times she had even found herself laying almost completely on top of him. Each time she would stay still and quiet, hoping that she did not wake him up, and go back to sleep, pretending that she had not woken at all. Again, she rationalized that if he disliked it so very much, than he need only open his mouth and say so.

If she were completely honest with herself, Margaret would say that John's lack of sexual interest in her was something which caused her great distress. It was true, she had never lain with a man before, but she was no longer a blushing virgin bride. She was a married woman, and thus privy to all manner of unfortunate conversations in the drawing rooms of those few who braved disapprobation by sending an invitation to Margaret Thornton, the great whore of Milton. She laughed wryly at the way it still sounded in her head. The times where she had been referred to as thus were few and far in between, but it made her chuckle each time. It was such a ridiculous phrase she could not be angry over it. There were far more terrible lies circulating about her that she could be angry over if she wanted to be. She was not the same woman she used to be, of that she was certain. Gone were the naïve, and innocent hopes and dreams of a girl.

In it's place was the bitter regrets of a lonely old woman.

* * *

Confusion. Desperation. Joy. Terror. How many things could one person possibly feel at once? It was too much; he couldn't explain it. Everything he had ever wanted was there, right before him, but he couldn't take it. He wanted to take it-oh yes, he wanted to take it so very much. But he couldn't. For a moment-one glimmering moment of madness-he thought he could. So he tried. But he was wrong; he could not have this. It could never be his. It instilled a fear in him such as he had never known. A fear so unlike him, and yet so wholly encompassing that it drove him away from her.

And so he ran.

He ran from that room, from that woman, from _himself_. He ran from that moment. The moment he tried to take happiness into his own hands. The moment where everything came crashing down with a bitter realization: he was _afraid_ of this. No, he was beyond afraid of this; he was terrified. Terrified of what was, and what could be. Terrified of _her_. But why? He could not answer that. Not entirely. There were things that he knew with his entire being, his very soul. And there were things he knew, that he could not understand. He knew he loved Margaret, wholly, completely, entirely…even with her faults. None of that mattered. Part of him still wanted to hate her, maybe it even did. He could no longer distinguish it. He knew he wanted nothing more than communicative mutual affection between them. And yet he was terrified of it, more so than he had been of anything else in his entire life. But there was something else as well. Something he placed more surety in than anything he knew:

There was something very, very wrong with him.

He had not meant to run quite so far. He only wanted to escape that moment, that terrible evening of insecurity. But he had come too far. There was something in his mind, which he actively fought with, that made him afraid of Margaret. So _very_ afraid of Margaret. Something that convinced him to run in the first place. But now it seemed as though he could not control it himself. He was aware of it, and yet, completely unable to stop or change it. So he fought; he fought the demons in his mind, and had come out more battle-scarred than ever. Because he always lost. There was no way to win against himself. And now he had done something to Margaret that could not be fixed. Not with all good deeds and apologies in the world could he fix this.

He had seen her retreating into herself. He had seen every tear, heard every broken-hearted sob while she thought he was away. He had seen the anguish upon her face every time he spurned her. But most of all, he noticed when she no longer tried. For eight months he had battled with himself. For eight months he tried desperately to break free of the Hell he had somehow fallen into. But he couldn't. Every time he was around her, something in him changed, he could feel it. He could feel his fear of her grow. He could feel the sudden onset of anxiety, and the way his mind pushed her away. But he could do nothing but let it happen, and watch as her despondency grew day by day. It was not long before she began to avoid him as much as he had been avoiding her. Part of him was glad for it. Part of him was glad that she would not have him crushing her hopes. As for the other part…he could not rightly explain how the other part of him felt.

It did not help matters that the Mill was failing. It only made everything worse. For even if he could force himself to sit down with Margaret, even if he could push everything else away and sit down to have a conversation with her, his first words to her in nearly eight months would speak of their upcoming destitution. Margaret thought little enough of him already, and he did not think he could bear to see her despair, knowing that this was the very thing he had sworn to save her from. One of the largest deciding factors that led to their marriage. She had spoken the very words to him. _"You married me, saved me from destitution."_ Oh, if only. For it would seem that she had married out of one destitution, and right into another. He sighed quietly, and feeling his entire body tremble with misery at thoughts of the months to come, he picked up a lock of hair that had fallen into Margaret's face while she slept, and twisted it gently in his fingers.

This was the only time he could be around her. The only time he didn't feel afraid, and he cherished every second. So much so, that he hardly slept. It wasn't as though he would have slept anywhere else. Even if he could have forced himself away from her side, sleep would not find him. It rarely ever did. His mind never settled enough for him to really sleep anymore. He supposed there was too much happening inside his head at once for him to get any proper sleep. But he had grown used to it over time. It was not hard to deal with. And in any case, he enjoyed these private moments with Margaret far too much to try and waste time sleeping when he knew he would not.

There were little moments of affection that he was certain she did not want him to know about. But it did not matter. He did know about them. He knew every time she touched him, inadvertently or no, and he cherished them all. The times she would take hold of his hand, intertwine their fingers together and use it as a makeshift pillow to rest her face on. The times she mapped every surface of his face, of his hair, with her own delicate fingertips. But the times he loved the most, were the times where her body would end up tangled with his own, and she would wake, notice where she was, and merely make herself more comfortable. It gave him hope. Hope that one day, he would break free from his prison, and they could be together. Properly. Have a normal, proper marriage and life, without the looming despondency that had long since claimed his household. But he knew it was not to be. Because there was only one thing he knew for certain anymore.

That there was something very, very wrong with him.

* * *

A/N: Well, a much longer chapter, that's for sure! I actually re-wrote several parts of this chapter multiple times before I came up with something I'm pleased with. I really am very nervous to hear how you feel about this. No, I can't tell you what's going on with John just yet. But I will, I promise. I mean, there's really no denying that there's something going on with him. And before you ask, "Are you really making John insane?" Why yes, yes I am. But all good things have a reason. So just be patient, and don't hate me for making him lose his mind.

So yeah, I really want to hear your thoughts! Things you loved, things you hated, things you want to see? Please tell me. I'm desperate, haha. And to all of you out there (you know who you are) who've been encouraging me not to send this soon, thank you most sincerely! I had not planned ending it soon, but you're encouragement keeps me from doubting myself.

As always, thank you to every single one of you who took the time to tell me how much you're enjoying this. =D


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

He had known for sometime, the spiraling condition of his son-in-laws state of mind. It was obviously really, to anyone who spent a few consecutive days in his company, and with John being married to his daughter…he had noticed. For a long time he said nothing, did nothing, refused to give in to the nagging voice of suspicion in the back of his mind every time he visited the couple. But soon, even he could no longer deny the reality of what was upon him. And he did not know what to do about it, other than to silently offer the poor man companionship when he needed it.

Mr. Hale spent a good deal of time at his daughters home, but he was hard-pressed to see both his children together at the same time. In fact, he could count the number of times it occurred on his hands in the near six months they had been married. All of them from a formal dinner invitation he received once a month, and all in all, a very poor way to have a more concise opinion on the more intimate workings of their relationship. There were always too many other people around, and John never spoke a word in mixed company unless he was spoken to directly, and he never spoke to Margaret in any situation. Perhaps if he had a better relationship with John's mother they might have conversed together, and come to some sort of understanding as to what was ailing him. But as he was not very close to her, and the only time he ever saw her was at the monthly dinner they attended, they never once spoke of their mutual suspicion and concern. But he could see it in her eyes, and in the creases of her face when she looked to John. He could see her watching her son, as well as her daughter-in-law, trying to fit the pieces together just as he himself was doing. He doubted she had any more luck in it than he did.

It was even more useless to try and talk to Margaret about any of it. He had only tried a few times, but in the end it was the same result. She requested that he not ask her about it, and changed the subject to something entirely more cheerful. But he had seen the change in her as well. Her bright and youthful visage was diminishing. She became very introverted, and had turned to cynicism. She was no longer his little girl. She was a woman now. A woman who was rapidly understand the cruel reality of the world.

It was these events that led him to where he was now: sitting in a chair outside, staring at the tranquil beauty of Oxford, and pondering his son-in-law. It took him a while to convince himself that seeking out a companion to solve the riddle of John's behavior was the right thing to do. Especially when that companion (although being his life-long friend) was the landlord to the building that housed his son-in-laws business, and therefore, his income. But eventually the strain had gotten the better of him, and he found himself in Oxford, spilling his thoughts and concerns to his closest friend, and hoping that the fresh perspective would help Mr. Hale to help John.

"When did all this start?" Mr. Bell asked him suddenly. They had been quiet for several minutes after Mr. Hale had originally spoke his concerns. Mr. Bell sat in an identical chair to his right, nursing a cup of tea and staring out across the grounds.

"I cannot give the exact date," Richard replied. "But nearly as long as they've been married." Edward hummed in thought.

"When was the last time you saw him behaving normally?" Richard sighed.

"Well I must say that is a difficult question to answer." He replied solemnly. "Seeing him now, knowing how he is, I feel that there have been traces of it since before they were married, although I could not see them at the time." He paused and looked back over the landscape before continuing with a far-off look in his eyes. "He was so distraught at the idea of Margaret being forced into marriage with him that he refused to do it. I suppose I could say that might be the first time I noticed any…abnormalities with his conduct. He is a man of great honor as I'm sure you know."

"He refused?" Edward exclaimed, a puzzled expression on his face. "Whatever for?"

"I believe he loves my daughter, perhaps more than even he can tell."

"Well obviously he changed his mind."

"Ah yes," Richard said, smiling slightly at the memory. "He came back and begged me to let him marry her after all." Edward laughed, but he still felt doubt even after all these months. "What if I made the wrong decision?" He asked. "What if I've doomed Margaret to be alone all her days?"

"No Richard," His friend replied, his tone easing the discomfort in Richard's mind. "That boy has been in love with your daughter for many, many months now. Whatever is causing this change, I feel it must be against his will."

"What do you mean?" He asked, perplexed.

"There are many different types of sickness." Edward said slowly. "There is a sickness of the mind, that takes hold of its victims in the same way every other sickness does: without your knowledge or consent." Richard knew the scandalized emotion he felt was reflected perfectly on his face.

"Are you saying you think he's insane!" He exclaimed.

"My dear friend," Edward said wearily. "The mind is a wonderful and mysterious thing. I can say nothing for certain, but I do not believe that every sickness is fatal." And with that he stood, saying that dinner would be ready soon, and that he had a great many books on such peculiar subjects that would be worth reading.

* * *

Margaret sat on the settee staring at the wall opposite her without seeing, despair coursing through her veins. Her face held no expression, her posture tense and rigid, hands resting in her lap. They held a piece of paper, with writing that was now indiscernible due to its dampness from the tears that had spilled upon it. Tears that, no matter how much Margaret wished they wouldn't, fell freely from her eyes, seemingly without end, and betraying her inner turmoil to the world. For once, she was glad she was always alone. Never before had she been so grateful to be discarded and left to her own devices. It meant that no one, save herself and God, would know of her tears. She hated tears, and she hated the emotions that caused them. If she could, she would banish them from her eyes. But she could not. She had no control over tears. And that was why she hated them. There was a muffled sound from beyond the closed door of the sitting room but she did not hear it. Her thoughts were of the letter in her lap that she would never be able to read again. She had ruined it with her meaningless idiotic tears. The sound of quick steps in the hallway pierced the haze of her mind. They were John's footsteps. But what did John's footsteps matter to her now? He was not coming to offer her comfort, or condolences. That would require speaking to her, something he did not do. Margaret could think of nothing she wanted less than to have John in the room, increasing the agony she felt. Either he heard her thoughts and was doing this to spite her, or he truly had no idea how little she desired his company, for it wasn't long before she could hear the door opening, and his chaotic footsteps as they neared her.

He was always like this around her: skittish and uncomfortable, always seeming as though he might turn and literally run away. It was why they spent so little time together. She'd grown accustomed to it, even though it didn't hurt any less. Truthfully she was surprised he had even come. After all, what did it matter if she suffered something else; she'd been suffering long enough as it was. It had never concerned him before. She kept her eyes resolutely focused on the wall she had been staring at, determined not to look at him. It would be too much for her to see him now. He said nothing, as per usual, but knelt down in front of her. She would not look at him, _she would not look at him!_ It took a great effort for her to turn her face away from him, to look at the window and the world beyond, but she knew she must. She could not help but see him out of her peripheral vision as she turned. His face conflicted, his body tense, but his eyes looking at her. Really properly looking for the first time since God only knew when. That fact alone made her want to crumble in a heap of misery.

She felt the paper being pulled out of her hands, but did not look down. It was only when his hand touched her face, gently turning it to face his own that she looked into his eyes. His hands were shaking so badly that she could not see straight, and when he tried to wipe away the overflowing wetness on her cheek, he nearly stabbed her in the eye. Part of her, the part that was so angry and hurt by him, told her to leave. To throw his hands away and walk away from him as he had done so many times to her. But more of her wanted this. More of her wanted his affection, his comfort. More of her wanted to stay here and let him do this. She closed her eyes and relished in his hands upon her face. They were still shaking so bad it was nearly comical, but he traced his fingers across every surface as gently as he could, wiping away the tears as they fell. For they could not stop, not with everything that was happening to her this day.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked in a whisper even she could barely hear. She did not expect him to answer; he never did. His hands were suddenly gone from her face, but she cold not open her eyes to watch him leave. She could pretend he was still here, holding her.

"I-I-I-" Her eyes flew open at the sound, and she looked down at him, something akin to horror shooting through her body.

He was speaking to her! Well, at least trying. It was as though something was keeping him from properly forming words. He stumbled through the simple phrase, looking at somewhere at her lap. His hands had fisted into her skirt so tightly Margaret feared he may not be able to let go. But it was his face that intrigued her the most. His eyes were closed, his body tense, and his face contorted to the most extreme look of concentration and determination she had even seen on any person in her life. As though this attempt at words might cost him his life. _In his mind it could very well cost that much, _she thought wryly. His pause in speaking ended then, and Margaret noticed how he leaned forward with every attempt at speech, as though he could force the words out. Why was it so difficult for him to speak to her? In that moment, she didn't care why. She didn't care what, or how. She only saw John, valiantly attempting to slay some form of beast that held his tongue and kept him from speaking. She felt as though nothing he would ever do for the rest of their lives, could ever surpass the affection she felt for him in this moment.

"I-I-I'm…s-s-s-" He paused and took a deep breath. "Sor-sorry." Margaret stared at him, shock turning her into stone. He looked up at her then, and she saw his expression mirrored her own. He looked just as stunned as she felt. "I'm s-s-sorry." He said again, so much clearer than before. His expression became somewhat pained, and he looked down, hands freeing themselves from her clothes, and making their way to his head, where he fisted them in his own hair. He fell forward onto his knees then and buried his face in her skirt, rocking back and forth as his body convulsed with sobs.

* * *

John burst in the front door of his house feeling more in control of himself than he had in a very long time. He knew what he had to do, what he must do, what he desperately _wanted_ to do. Right now he felt as though he could do it. Maybe if only just for today, because of what had happened, he could fight the demons off and speak to his wife.

The revelation had come while he was in his office at the Mill, as he read the letter. He thought of how much he desperately wanted to go to Margaret and just _hold_ her. Touching her was not something he had been able to do since before he lost the ability to speak to her. Something that crept up to him gradually, hiding its presence until it was too late, and John no longer had the ability to fight it off. So he succumbed to his helplessness, cherishing the touches they secretly shared in the night. He scoffed at himself. Secretly shared touches? As though he was hiding the fact that he was still desperately in love with her from himself.

Well, it _was_ a startlingly accurate description.

It was this logic that drove him out of his chair, and towards his home. He could never think about Margaret this long without…well he didn't understand what. All he knew was that it hadn't started yet. And he felt…liberated. As though he had fooled himself and gotten away with it. Now he was free to seek her out.

Just so long as he didn't let himself find out what he was doing.

"M-mm-m-mmm-mistress?" he barely managed to get out the servant he stumbled across. She looked at him as though his hair had suddenly caught fire before pointing down the hallway.

"In the sitting room Master." She squeaked before hurrying out of his way, seemingly terrified of him. He found he didn't blame her. He forced himself not to sprint to the door he was looking for, but hesitated once he reached it. There was so much running through his mind, but he willed himself not to think, and simply to act. If he acted, he wouldn't know, and if he didn't know, then he could see Margaret.

She was sitting on the settee calm and expressionless, looking off into the distance. If she heard him enter, which she surely did, she made no attempt to acknowledge him. But he didn't care. He never acknowledged her either. He made his way towards her, trying not to focus on the way that her outfit (a dark blue skirt with a white blouse he had seen her wear many times before) hung from her form, the darkness under her eyes, and the way her hair simply hung there in a very simple but loose bun. How had he not seen what had been happening before his very eyes? He had been so blinded that he was completely ignorant of her wasting away in front of him. The first prickling of warning in the back of John's mind made him anxious. Not now, not after he had only just gotten here!

He shoved the offending feeling away, kneeling in front of his wife and trying to catch her eye, but she looked away, and he was left staring at her cheek. He couldn't let himself know, he couldn't _let himself know!_ John looked down at her hands and saw a letter that, at one point, was probably very similar to his own. Now the ink ran together, blurring each letter into the next, each word into indecipherable nothingness. He pulled the soaked page from her grip, and set it on the floor beside him. The prickling was growing now, and the feeling was spreading through him, but he made himself continue. He had to say it, he had to look her in the eyes and say it. He reached for her, his hands shaking beyond his control, but he wouldn't stop now. Not when he was this close to saying what he had to, not when he would lose this in only a few minutes. John turned her face towards his, and suddenly her eyes were piercing his.

It was growing stronger and more intense with every passing second he was this close to her, and soon he would be gone completely. He clung to this part of himself, desperate to say the words. Margaret's eyes were closed, leaning into his touch, her expression more anguished than it had been before.

"Why are you doing this to me?" She whispered, eyes still closed, tone expressing her torment. The sight of it broke his heart, his hands fell from her face, and as he lost focus and allowed the pain to enter his mind, he made way for the demons. He could sense it now, the battle storming on the edge of his awareness, and he forced himself to speak, fisting his hands into her skirt, desperately trying to stay there with her.

But he could not form the words. He had lost too much control, and his mouth would not move the way he wanted to, would not speak the things he had to say. He tried so many times, never giving up because he _had _to do this. He would not get the chance to do it again, and already he was quickly running out of time. "I-I-I'm…s-s-s-" He paused and took a deep breath. "Sor-sorry." Margaret's eyes snapped open, and she stared at him incredulously. He had done it! Very badly, but he had done it. He willed himself to try again before it was too late. "I'm s-s-sorry." The war in his mind was progressing, tearing him apart, and forcing pain and disquiet upon him. He couldn't take it anymore. He felt his control slipping away, even as he still tried to fight it off. But he knew it was hopeless. It was a battle he had lost many many times, and he would lose it this time as well.

He barely noticed the tears falling, or very much afterwards. He clung to Margaret for as long as he could still take comfort from her, wishing he could speak. _'I'm sorry.' _He thought miserably. _'Oh God, I'm so sorry.'_ He was sorry for everything. Sorry for their marriage, for her dilapidated life, for himself. He was sorry for his insanity. He was sorry for everything. He could only hope that she understood what he was saying, because he knew now that he could not say it again. He could not tell her how much he loved her. How much he wished he was normal. That this monster in his mind would leave. Especially now. Now that shared a sort of kinship, a similarity that neither wanted but had nonetheless.

Now they were both fatherless.

* * *

A/N: Hello everyone! So wow, what a response to that last chapter! I understand that a lot of you were quite unhappy with the plot twist. Well….I can honestly say that I believe its because you don't understand it yet. I could have just told you, but I think that would take the thrill and mystery of reading a story away completely. So before you all throw stones at me, just know that it's not what you believe it is. Not a single one of you who reviewed with a guess (which were very amazing, thank you by the way) were correct, although some were very close.

Yes it is very very dark right now. That's the problem with being in John's perspective. He's losing his mind, it's going to be dark. I know some of you don't like it, and I'm sorry for that, but that's the way it has to be for now. I don't really enjoy writing things so dark all the time, it will stop soon actually. It's very challenging to write from John's perspective right now, and I'm sure you can understand why: it doesn't make any sense. Why? Because John's mind doesn't make any sense right now. Even he doesn't understand it.

I know this will be confusing for a lot of you, and I'll try to answer any questions you have regarding the story as quickly as I can.

A big thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter, all twenty-four of you! Woo! And I look forward to hearing more from you =D Even if you still don't like it.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-Two

Margaret had her suspicions that there was something wrong with John for a very long time. After all, eight months of silence was an extraordinary feat for a married couple with no children and none but the servants living in the house with them. Margaret was not even accepted into most society, and could not claim spending time with others as a reason for their prolonged silence. Of course, if she had her way it never would have been like this at all. She bitterly regretted the person she had let herself become, and the silence that she now contributed. But it wasn't how she wanted it. No, the silence started with John, and that was truly where her suspicion began. She never realized that she had refused to let herself believe it until the letter had come. The letter that spoke of her fathers death, and inadvertently breached some sort of gap that she and John were unable to on their own. Well, partially at least.

For that was when she knew beyond any doubt, that a sickness had taken hold of his mind.

What it was, she could not say. Why it happened, she could not guess. There were only two people she could speak to who might have an understanding of such things. The first was John's mother, but the last time they had spoken had been on extremely unpleasant terms, and Mrs. Thornton swore she would never see Margaret again, and likewise would never have to be brought down by the scandal she represented again. She did not believe that stopped her from seeing her son, however. Margaret caught glimpses of her every now and again, coming to or leaving the Mill yard. If she noticed anything unusual in John's behavior, she had never spoke a word of it to Margaret. She could see how, objectively, their marriage might not appear to be in the chaos it was. Margaret seemed to be the only person John would not-_could not_-speak to, and was to an extent, his normal (if not stoic) stern self in the public eye. She supposed it was how the Mill was still in business. He must have some level of clarity.

The only other person she might speak to on the subject, would be Dr. Donaldson. There were many reasons she had _not_ done this, most of them she was only just discovering as she now fully allowed herself to accept the reality of Johns illness. Margaret was afraid that if she told the doctor what she feared was wrong with him, that he would either brush her off as the mad woman everyone thought her to be, or that he would take John from her. He was not insane. Not completely anyway. But you did not need to be a member of the medical profession to know what horror lay beyond the doors of a mental hospital. The thought of committing him to that state of existence was so overwhelming, she nearly became violently sick at that thought of it. If a person wasn't insane when they were committed (which unfortunately happened quite a bit), they certainly were after they had been there for a few months, or were made insane by what was passed off as "treatment". Margaret trusted Dr. Donaldson, but she could not trust him that far, and was unwilling to take the risk. No, she would help John through this on her own, and damn the consequences. _In sickness and in health_.

As John poured his sorrow into her, burying his face in her lap, tears soaking the fabric there, Margaret determined to find a way through this. The sight of him, still rocking slightly with his fingers buried in his hair, seemingly trying to pull it out, ignited a fire within her. A fire that wanted to burn away his impurities and win him back no matter the cost.

Margaret did not know it yet, but a fire _was_ coming. The likes of which no one could ever have anticipated.

* * *

Margaret lay awake that night for quite some time, her mind far too preoccupied to get any sleep. John was still mysteriously absent after he had left her in the sitting room, and with the news that her father was now gone, Margaret felt terribly alone with only her thoughts. They were filled with dark and depressing thoughts, and she begged God that the haunted feeling of her mind would cease. She did not know how much longer she could stand it. She missed her father terribly. When he left for Oxford two months previous, she never anticipated that he would not return to her. He had been her anchor through everything, and even though they never spoke of her marriage (Margaret never allowed it), she had known how much he understood, how much he had observed. If only she had been more observant of John herself, or perhaps expressed her growing concerns to her father rather than putting everything on herself…they might have worked out this mystery together. But it was too late.

Margaret felt the burning in her eyes again, somewhat surprised that she still had tears left to cry. She'd spent the entire day crying, a mixture of sorrow between her husband and her father. But still they fell, offering proof that she was not the heartless wretch she believed she had become, that perhaps there was still enough of _Margaret _inside to prevail, come what may. She did notice that John was in the room until she felt the bed dip slightly with his weight. Her wretched crying must have masked any sound he made while entering, and she felt unaccountably guilty for it.

"I'm sorry." Her voice cracked horribly as she sat up, and she wiped furiously at her face. "I will…leave so that you might get some-some sleep." She hated how hysterical she sounded, but there was nothing to be done about it. She would not deprive him of the little rest he did get with her blubbering. She tossed the blankets to the side and made to free her legs from beneath them when his hand shot out and gripped her forearm in a way that left no doubt what he was saying. Stay. He wanted her to stay. She turned to face him, but could see nothing but the eternal blackness of the night.

His hand traced up her arm, a slow whisper of a touch, before resting on her face. Twice in one day, less than twelve hours between, he had shown her affection without warning. She was just as unprepared for this as the last time. He did not give her very much time to dwell upon his actions before he pushed her back, gently guiding her to lay back down, and Margaret let him. She tried desperately to stop her tears, but it was no use. They were falling for more reasons than she could focus on at the moment. She conceded that, if nothing else, the shaking (and rather horrible) sobbing had at least ceased. She supposed that John's sudden appearance had something to with that. Even though he could not speak to her, he still managed to giver her strength and determination, just as he always had. If only she could give him the same…

"Thank you, John." She said as he settled himself onto the mattress, throwing the blankets over them both in one fluid movement. She turned to face him, even though she knew there would be nothing but the darkness of night between them, and heard him move similarly. She reached forward blindly to where she thought his hand might be, and took hold of it in her own. Margaret half expected him to retreat right then, but he did not; he clutched her hand in equal fervor, perhaps drawing the same strength from her that she was from him. "Will you go to the funeral?" she asked him suddenly, not even realizing she had spoken the silent thought until a moment later. There was a gentle pressure coming from his fingers that Margaret assumed meant 'yes'. "I do not know when it is. I assume it will be in Oxford." The last statement was somewhat rhetorical, but she felt the gentle pressure from his hand nonetheless. There was a somewhat charged silence between them for a few moments.

"Can I come with you?" The question hung between them, heavy with so many unspoken emotions. There was no pressure from his fingertips. Margaret could guess why. "John, I-" She paused, wondering if this might be going to far. "John, I know that you are sick." It was immediate. His entire body tensed, the pressure against her hand increasing, and she could practically feel the unease coming off him. "Do not be alarmed," She added quickly. "I have had my suspicions for quite some time, but now I…I know for sure." His tension had not abated.

"I understand it now. I understand your behavior. After all, I would say I have had more than enough time to observe it." Margaret had hoped that even a little humor might ease John, but apparently it had not. Humor was never something she had ever been good at anyways. She chose her next words carefully, wanting to make absolutely sure that she was able to tell him this while she could. "I do not understand…why this has happened. But…I know that…that I want to help you to…overcome it. That I…will stand by your side no…no matter what, because I…because…I love you…and I always will. Even if you…cannot love me in return." Margaret closed her eyes, willing her heart to calm itself. He would not be able to respond to her anyway.

She was therefore taken by complete surprise when John let go of her hand and grabbed her shoulder, pulling her towards him. She was frozen for only a minute before she realized what he was doing, and inched her way forward, unsure of what he wanted. He pulled her close to his chest, one hand one the small of her back, another buried underneath her hair on the back of her head, and pushed her head so that she lay against him. There, with her ear pressed against his body, she could hear the steady thrumming on his heartbeat, and she smiled into his shoulder.

"I-I-" He stuttered in attempt to form a reply, but she thought she knew what he was going to say, and shushed him.

"I know," She told him, not moving her head from its comfortable resting place. "You don't have say it." In response he wrapped his arms around her, tightly folding her into an embrace which she gladly returned, before feeling the exhaustion of the day settle in.

It was true, Margaret didn't need him to say it. She already knew he was sorry.

"So…" Margaret began again. "May I come with you?" He did not reply, not that she had anticipated anything else, but the tension in his body had returned.

"You may." It was so quiet, Margaret truly believed she had imagined it. He had spoken to her, no stuttering, no anxiety, just simple easy speech. It was a polar opposite from the way he had attempted to speak not even five minutes before.

Margaret didn't understand. Did this mean he was making progress? Surely he must! He had not spoken to her with such a clarity in his voice in longer than she cared to think of. It was the way he spoke to everyone else. That was good, was it not? She pulled away from him, determined to look him in the eye, foolishly hoping that they would contain the answers to her questions. She could see his face now. Perhaps her eyes had adjusted completely to the darkness. She could not make out very much detail, like the complexity of his expression, but she could see the outlines, and it was enough for her. She had just opened her mouth to speak when he pushed her heat back down to his chest, forcing her against him once more.

"No-" He said, this time his voice sounded somewhat strangled, somewhat anxious. Her heart pounded beneath her chest, and she could hear Johns own pulse, so much faster than her own. "It is better if I cannot see you." it was an honest statement, one that Margaret appreciated even though it caused her an unusual longing pain that she was not quite familiar with. But she refused to focus on it.

"Why is that?" She asked quietly, doing her very best not to move from where he placed her. Perhaps, if he was able to speak to her, she could better understand his illness, maybe even find out how to overcome it.

"I…" He hesitated. "I feel…afraid around you." His body was so tense, Margaret might have been clutching a brick wall. But she understood what such an admission must have cost him. How difficult it must be for him to admit that not only was he defeated, but he feared it as well. She knew the old John well enough to know just how much he prided himself on being a man _without_ fear. Now that she thought about it, she didn't think she'd ever seen him afraid. He seemed…well, out of sorts when he proposed, but Margaret had always thought that to be nerves. Even on their wedding day he did not appear to be afraid. Margaret had been terrified. And yet she recalled John looking at her with that look, the one of boyish wonder, as she came up the isle toward him. She pondered her next question for a long time before she asked him.

"Are you always afraid of me?" She heard him sigh loudly.

"I don't…really know how to explain it…" He was silent for several minutes, but she knew somehow that he would answer her question. This was a time for listening. "It's almost as though there are…two parts of me." He removed one of his hands from her back, and scratched (she assumed, anyway) somewhere on his face. "There is a part of me, that _is_ me. It is me as I have always been my whole life. And there is another part of me, that is not me, that makes me afraid of certain things." Margaret found herself nodding into his shoulder. "I am confusing you, I'm sorry."

"No," Margaret said quickly. "I believe I understand what you are saying." She paused for a moment before asking her next question. "Why is it that you can talk to me now, but have been unable to before?"

"I do not know." John replied quietly. "If I cannot see your face, it is easier for me to…pretend that you're not here. If you're not really here, then I can't be afraid of you." Margaret nodded again. Truthfully, everything he was saying was so incredibly confusing that she had no choice but to take a few minutes to piece everything together. She supposed that anything he said in regards to his illness would most likely only be completely understood by him, but she did try her very best.

"Well then," she said, trying to sound cheerful. "I shall just have to hide from your sight if ever I need to ask you something." He chuckled slightly, the noise drifting through his torso and into her cheek that still rested upon his chest.

"I cannot tell you the depth of my regret." John said after several more minutes of silence. Margaret opened her mouth, but it seemed he had anticipated her action. "No Margaret." He said solemnly, moving one hand up to the back of her head. "I would sell my very soul if it meant I could take back these months of sorrow for you, and rid myself of this wretched illness so that you might be happy. It's all I ever wanted for you." He trailed off, as though unsure of what to say next, and Margaret took her chance.

"I am happy." She said, though her voice was muffled because her face was hidden in the crook of his shoulder. He scoffed, obviously disbelieving.

"It does not take a genius to know that is an untruth. I have watched you every day these eight months. I know you are not happy." Margaret sighed.

"I will not deny that…that I have _been_ unhappy." She replied, weighing her words, and hoping that she did not hurt him by what she had to say. "I will be honest, these last several months I believe that you regretted out marriage, and simply did not speak to me because you wished not to. It made me feel…a bitterness towards you that I work very hard to suppress, because I know now that you do not mean to ignore me." She paused and took a deep breath. "But I tell you the truth when I say I am happy now. I would rather be here with you, even though it will be hard, than be at my fathers house alone, waiting to be shipped back to London to my Aunt." John tightened his arms around her and buried his face in her hair.

"I do not deserve you." He said.

"Can I asked you something?" Margaret questioned.

"Anything."

"Why do you still insist on out wedding clothes being draped across the chaise lounge?"

"It reminds me that I was not always like this." He said without hesitation. "That I once was a man who wanted nothing more in the world than to earn your love. A man who married you with hope and fear in equal measure, and that you chose a life with me over the one you had. It gives me something to fight for."

It was these words that Margaret pondered in depth as she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

When she woke the next morning, John was already gone. His pillow was cold, but his smell still lingered there, and Margaret buried her face within, mind swimming with the memories of the night before. They were making progress after all.

It wasn't long before John came to collect her so they could depart for Oxford. In fact, Margaret had only just finished dressing when he suddenly appeared in the doorframe. He was silent and somewhat skittish, but Margaret had expected it, and had already thought of several things she might try to help him progress. He held his arm out in silent offering (even if it was trembling somewhat), and Margaret graciously accepted it, trying to avoid looking directly at him. She let the black of her own mourning clothes blend in with that of his, as he guided her down to the carriage that would lead them to the train station.

The carriage ride, the subsequent train ride, and following carriage ride were spent in complete silence. It gave Margaret plenty of time to observe him and how he acted around her, and apply it to the knowledge she gained the night before. He didn't ever do much; he sat there, staring out the window with a posture so rigid he might have been made of stone, all the while twisting his fingers around anxiously in his lap.

The funeral itself was quite different. It seemed as though he was able to forget that she was beside him, and focus on the words that were spoken. Margaret herself, although she missed her father terribly, could not bring herself to be completely distraught over her loss. He had never quite recovered from the death of her mother, and had seemed quite lost without her. Now at least, they could be together. She supposed if had still been at home with him, an unmarried woman when he died, the loss of his company would have dealt a much greater blow. She was not alone now though, and could see the lighter side of the loss of her father: he and her mother were now at peace, left to spend eternity together without the constraints of the world bearing down upon them. Her tears, when they did fall, weren't nearly as overwhelming as they had been on the day she received the news of his death from Mr. Bell.

Mr. Bell himself had invited them to stay that night at his home, and travel back to Milton the following day, but John declined, saying there was a great deal of business to be dealt with. Mr. Bell followed by saying that he had made plans to come to Milton the following week, and would visit them there. He gave Margaret a rather significant look that she did not quite understand, and thought must have some manner of importance behind it.

By the time they arrived home and readied themselves for bed, she had quite forgotten about it.

* * *

The next few days Margaret found herself at Crampton, going through all of her father's possessions and deciding which could be auctioned off. It was long, somewhat disheartening work, but she pushed through it, and with Dixons help, managed to have everything packed and labeled in no more than three days. Dixon herself, had plans of spending some time visiting her sister, before deciding whether she would move to Marlborough, or to Harley Street with Margaret's Aunt. She had just crossed into the yard at the Mill when it happened. A noise louder than anything she had ever heard erupted from the Mill itself to her left, followed by an unseen force so powerful, Margaret was thrown from her feet and crashed into the wall behind her.

She stumbled to her feet, not noticing the blood that poured from a gash on her left temple, steadily dripping onto her dress. Fire. Everywhere there was fire, and cotton, and ash raining from the sky above, but she could not hear. She could see people running, screaming, mouths moving frantically, but she could hear nothing. Suddenly she felt herself being jerked around, and came face to face with John. He was unharmed, but his face was pale, his eyes darting frantically around to everything, taking in the chaos that Margaret was unable to process. She saw his mouth move, but couldn't hear what he was saying. There was a slight ringing noise she could hear, very high pitched, but drowning everything else out.

"What?" She called loudly. She couldn't even hear herself speak, but she felt the vibration of it in her throat. John turned her head to the side, frowning deeply as he turned her back to look into her eyes. He was speaking again, more slowly this time, but she still could not hear him. It was starting to come back though, she could hear a great muffled sound, and the ringing had vanished. John had taken hold of her arm and steered her to the door of the house. He turned her to face him again, using his hands to communicate along side his voice, which was now distinguishable in the great muffled noise overpowering her ears.

A finger pointed at her, a finger pointed at the house, a fierce determination in his eyes. No.

"No!"

Absolutely not! He expected her to stay in the house while he ran off into the inferno that was Marlborough Mills. He threw his hands in the air in obvious frustration, pushing her towards the house while he himself was moving away from her in the other direction.

"No, I'm going with you!" She hoped that was what actually came out of her mouth. He turned to look at her, incredulous.

"Have you lost your mind!" She heard _that_.

"You cannot go in there alone!" She cried. "I will go with you."

"No Margaret, you will not! You will stay here, where it is safe, where I know you will be alive, and I can come back to you." He turned away from her again, hurrying in the other direction.

"And what of you!" She cried desperately. "What if you do not come back to me!" She was crying now, tears tracking their way through the grime that had accumulated on her face in the initial explosion. John turned to face her, but stopped suddenly, looking at her as though he had never seen her before.

"Then all the better for you, Margaret." He said calmly, walking back towards her. Anger was boiling inside her. How could he say such a thing? Did he not know, did he not understand what he meant to her? Tears were pouring down her face, and she met him halfway through his stride with an angry and resounding _slap_! John staggered back a step.

"Do not say such things, John!" She exclaimed, now fully hysterical. "Don't you dare think like that!"

"Margaret," He said, half turning away again.

"No! You have to come back!" She placed her hands on either side of his face. "I cannot lose you, not now!" He stared at her with an intensity she had never seen, fire dancing behind (and even reflected in) his eyes. Before he could leave her there, leave her there to wonder for the rest of her life, she pulled him forward and crashed his lips against her own. It only took him a moment to respond, before he lifted her completely against the ground, kissing her with as much passion as she was him. Margaret couldn't breathe, and never wanted it to end. But as her feet touched the ground once more, she knew it had. Opening her eyes, she stared into the raging ocean storm in his own.

"I love you Margaret." He said, and Margaret felt her own heart shatter with the implication of what he was saying. He let go of her, and walked away once more. Margaret dimly noted that he had placed back inside the house, out of harms way.

"John!" She called. He turned to face her, but kept his pace, now walking in reverse. "Promise me you'll come back to me." He smiled at her, truly smiled at her for the first time since their marriage began, and had a somewhat mischievous look in his eye.

"Of course I will!" He said in a tone so cheerful, it left Margaret shocked. "Especially now that I have _that_ to look forward to!"

And with that, he turned and ran, disappearing completely into the inferno.

* * *

A/N: Well well well! This is it, the good stuff I've been talking about for months. This chapter (I'm sure you noticed) if so much lighter! I told you I didn't care to write that much dark. It's not easy. This was much lighter, but obviously still has the overhanging…everything really, that's been happening. Progress!

Speaking of progress, I had a few of you who told me you didn't feel I was moving the plot at all in the last chapter. I'm sorry if I didn't make it clear enough that the entire chapter was based around Mr. Hale's death. It was after all, a very vague reference, only in the last sentence of the chapter, so if it wasn't clear enough I apologize. On the subject of Mr. Hale, someone was kind enough to point out that Mr. Hale said Margaret had only been married 6 months. I did do that on purpose, but I had meant to have Margaret comment on how her father had been gone for two months, and that was him from two months prior, and completely forgot, so my bad. I got caught up in the emotion of last chapter. Also, my grammar has been deplorable lately. I have incredibly severe allergies, and as it's now spring, I am very very sick. I happen to be severely allergic to almost every kind of plant pollen, and if I do make my way outside, I pay dearly for it. That's unfortunately what had happened with last chapter, and part of this (possibly) as well. I've gone back through it several times, but don't hate me too much if it is a continuation of awful.

So, review and tell me what you think! =D

Love you awesome peeps ;)

PS: Also, sorry if you don't care for how quickly this chapter has gone, I sped things up a little to, well, move the plot forward. sometimes it's the only way.


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